


Leto's Story

by PickledGinger



Series: Chronicles of Tevinter [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: BUT IT IS CANON, ITS NOT OKAY, NOT a supporter of non-con, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledGinger/pseuds/PickledGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Leto became Fenris<br/>(Time for me to bare my heart a bit. I am a rape survivor, and I wrote this to describe how this affects the way a person thinks. I don't endorse non-consensual anything.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Firstly, he was washed. Thrown into a basin of lukewarm water and scrubbed head to toe with something. Sand? Salt, perhaps? Maybe it was sugar? It was coarse, and intermingled with tiny, dusky lavender blooms. A few words came to mind and stayed there; rough, scratching, itching, uncomfortable. His skin turned rosy from the abrasion, and the room smelled of flowers. He was doused with a pitcher of cool, soapy water, perfumed with something he didn’t recognize. He ran his fingers over his freed skin and found it was smooth and soft to the touch. The layers of dust and dirt had been scraped from his body, his dark hair, once coated in a light layer of earth, felt light and clean. It looked like liquid garnet stones, tumbling over his sharp brows. The other slaves draped him in simple linens. Just enough for modesty- his slender shoulders and trim chest were left bare, a bit chilled by the air. A few new words shoved themselves into his thoughts: clean, cold, confused.

“Leto?” there was a voice from the doorway, and he looked up from his new vestments to find its owner. A grand looking man. His robes were folded in exquisite layers, and his every movement jangled with golden jewellery. Leto squinted at him, cocking his head to the side slightly. On this man’s back was an ornate staff. A mage, “I am Magister Danarius. I purchased you. Your name is Leto, is it not?”

“Yes…” He paused, unsure how to address a magister, “… master…” He bowed his head.

“You’re my newest pet. I have plans for you. Magnificent plans. But more on that to come,” Danarius closed the distance between himself and his newest possession, putting his hand on Leto’s shoulder, “You feel thin. Are you hungry, boy?”

His mother had told him that admitting hunger was impolite, but his stomach growled, making the decision for him, “… yes, master.”

The mage lead him down stone corridors, decorated with paintings and urns of unfamiliar origin. Leto ran over the day’s occurrences. He had never been purchased before. He had belonged, by proxy, to his mother’s master, and had been taught to obey them on principle. He had never been honestly worked as a slave. He gathered herbs, cleaned pots and pans, swept the stairways. But only when other elven workers were otherwise occupied. His primary duty was tending to his sister, Varania, and upon occasion, the children of other household slaves. He was unsure what to expect from this new master. He had always been told that Magisters were powerful people, hungry for power; cruel and corrupt. This man- Danarius- had so far, bathed him and offered him a meal. He desperately wished he could find some signs from the other slaves, anything to get a sense of what he was in for with this new master. Before he could think on it further he was sat down at a shoddy table in what seemed to be the mansion’s kitchen. A few other slaves- mostly elves, as well- glanced his way, muttering amongst themselves behind flour coated hands. The large human man at the grill turned away from his large pot, and wiped his forehead, “Master Danarius. What a surprise. Who… is this?”

“Leto hasn’t eaten properly. Fetch him something,” Danarius said, firmly gripping the young elf’s shoulders in a way not entirely gentle.

The man sighed and grabbed a wooden bowl, and filling it, before sliding it across the table.

Leto blinked in surprise. Potatoes? And real meat? The oppressive hands on his shoulders started to feel a little more protective. He eagerly took up the fork, and the hands squeezed harshly.

“Leto. Aren’t you going to thank me?” Danarius asked, his voice sweet but unnerving.

“A-ah… I’m sorry, Master. Thank you.”

Danarius let him go, “I expect impeccable manners from my slaves. You’ll pick up on it quickly, I’m sure. Eat quickly, and join me in my quarters. Erenthal will tell you the way.”

Danarius took his leave of the kitchen, and Leto, mouth full of decent food for the first time in weeks, gazed up at the cook, “Erenthal?”

“That’s me. I work as Master Danarius’ chef,” The burly man said, refilling his bowl, “not any better than the rest of you, though. Still a slave.”

“… You’re..?”

“A slave like you, and everyone else in this kitchen,” he gestured to the kitchen staff, who were still softly tittering while tending to their chores.

Leto nodded and practically shovelled more potatoes into his mouth. All of the things he had heard about the Magesterium; none of it was matching up. The food was delicious, and his stomach was full and he felt warm and dare he say it? Happy. He was glad he had been purchased. He pushed the newly emptied bowl back towards Erenthal, “Master’s quarters?”

“Of course. But… kid. Leto? The master is a powerful man, and a powerful mage. He’s been studying for a long while. Just…” Erenthal made a fist, the slave signal for a strict master, “Keep it in mind.”

Leto nodded again. A strict master, then. Though he was having a difficult time seeing it. All he could focus on was his now full stomach, clean skin, and droopy, tired eyes.

“Master Danarius’ quarters are on the third floor of the manor, the large door. With the carvings of the Golden City. Not possible to miss,” Erenthal said, clearing Leto’s dish and silver.

“Thank you,” he tried on a smile, and held out his hand for the chef to shake, before heading to the third floor himself. The door was indeed grand by all measures. And it was not only a carving of the Golden City- but of the magi who tore down its doors. This was not how he was used to seeing this depicted- the magi appeared triumphant, and proud, staves raised into the air in victory. He sighed and rapped on the door lightly with his knuckles. Manners. He needed to have manners. The door seemed to open itself, and he walked in cautiously. Master Danarius was sitting at an ornate cherry wood desk, also emblazoned with images of magi and demons. Leto got a longer look at the Magister; he was not an overly elderly man- possibly in his early fifties. His hair was a dark grey, with streaks of white, and his impeccably trimmed beard was peppered in a similar manner. His features were sharp, and there was intelligence and pride behind his eyes, as well as a coldness Leto couldn’t quite describe. The surface of the desk was piled high with scrolls and tomes, and quills were scattered here and there. He was scratching away at a piece of parchment, and Leto moved in a bit closer, curiosity piqued. His new master pushed him away gently, covering up his work with another book, “Not for your eyes, little pup.”

“I-It’s alright, master. I... I can’t read anyway,” Leto said quickly, “You’ll never have to worry! A-and I’m not an incaensor! Th-that’s my sister…”

“I know, I know…” Danarius said, standing and putting his arms around Leto’s shoulders once again, “Come. Let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

Leto perked up a bit. This room was extravagant; the walls were marble, and the wood was all carvings and golden leaf. His master’s bed was covered in the biggest pillows he had ever seen. The blankets seemed to be silks and plush velvets. Despite himself, Leto felt eager. If he was to stay in this room, he’d be surrounded by luxury. Warm covers and nice pillows, maybe even a real mattress. Danarius lead him to the main section of the suite, and lead him past the bed. The young elf let his hand brush the supple edge of the bedding, stifling a slight smile. So soft. He could only imagine that it was warm on chilly nights. He fought the temptation to throw himself onto the velvet covers. Danarius tugged him a bit, pulling him over to a small alcove directly across from the bed, and his heart felt a bit. Not a bed. It was a cushion, with a few small pillows. Pressed underneath a large bay window. He looked over at his master quizzically.

“This is where you will sleep. It should suit you just fine,” Danarius said. He nodded at the cushion, as if to ask Leto to sit down.

He lowered himself onto the large throw pillow, and crossed his legs. It was surprisingly comfortable. He ran his hands over it. It was the same deep red velvet found on the bed just a few paces away. The other pillows were stuffed with what felt to his unexperienced hands, like goose feathers. It might not have been a bed, but it was nice. Nicer that sleeping on a cot made of stretched leather. He looked up at his new master and smiled, “Thank you, Dominus. I like it very much.”

“Good, good. I have one last thing for you before you should turn in for the night. You’ve had an eventful day, little pup. Sleep will do you well,” Danarius smiled back at his newest treasure, and turned away to lift something from a table alongside his bed. Leto scowled in confusion. What was it? An iron band? A large one. Not fit for anything practical. Danarius knelt down, and motioned for Leto to move in. He obeyed, raising a brow. He felt very suddenly, and very violently uneasy. Danarius opened the band- it had small, delicate, hinges- and clasped it around Leto’s neck. He jerked backwards, and grabbed at it, tugging sharply.

“Stop that,” Danarius snapped. He pulled Leto back towards him, and fastened a chain to the hoop on the front of the band, “It is sealed closed with magic. Only a high calibre mage can release it. The chain as well. It’s not a punishment Leto. Think of it as… a physical sign that you are mine.”

Leto tugged at it still. It was cold and hard, and made him feel claustrophobic. He yanked harder and harder, getting panicked. He was startled out of his fear by a sharp slap to the face.

“Stop. I have placed that collar around your neck and there it shall stay as long as I wish it!”

Leto lowered his shaking hands. He felt conflicted. His stomach was full, he was clean, and sitting on a velvet bed, just for him. He was in a magister’s palace. Safe and tucked away from the streets and starvation. This man was his master. His master was protecting him. He must have really upset him, to get hit thusly. He bowed his head, “y-yes, master Danarius. I’m sorry… thank you.”

Danarius took his cheeks in his hands- they were soft, un-calloused, and cold, “Leto, you are very special to me. Do not do things to test my adoration of you. Noisy dogs often get kicked. Go to sleep. Tomorrow, we begin your training.” With that, the magister locked the loose end of the thick iron chain to a sturdy ring fastened to the wall, patted Leto’s hair softly, and blew out the lantern.

Leto calmed a quivering lip, and curled up on the soft cushion. It was nice. He let out a long breath, and tucked his knees closer to his chest. He brushed a hand over his leg, feeling how clean he was, and how warm. It was the first time in many weeks he had gone to bed without the pain of hunger stabbing at his stomach, and making him weak. He pushed the stinging pain in his cheek out of mind, and reflected on his new Master, and his new home. Perhaps being slave to a magister was something to be thankful of.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't be fooled. Denarius is a giant butt-head (I wanted to use a worse word, but butt-head is funny. And this fic is not.)

The morning came abruptly, and he was nudged awake by a kindly smile from Danarius, “Come now, Leto. We must begin your training. It won’t do to leave you as you are. You’re of no use to me in this state.”

Leto yawned and scrubbed at his eyes, earning himself a clank from his temporarily forgotten collar. He nearly jumped, startled by the noise, before recalling the event of the band’s placement the night before, “S-sorry, master, but could I ask what my job for you is?”

Danarius chuckled, “It is… a mission you are not yet prepared for. You have a reputation amongst the slaves at your previous master’s mansion. You have… a bit of a temper, and are prone to solving your disputes with you fists…”

“Y-yes, I mean… no sir!” Leto interjected, “I… only when…”

“Don’t deny yourself, pup. Your tendencies are much of the reason I selected you,” Danarius told him, “On your feet. We’re due in the courtyard. I have only the finest trainers waiting for you.”

Leto sighed. He was certainly known for getting into fist fights. Innocent squabbles between himself and some of the other teenaged slaves at the yard. Once, a human girl about his age, for calling him and his sister “knife-ear,” and another a young man quite a few years his seniors, for flipping Varania’s skirts. He had walked away with a bouquet of broken fingers, and a decently blackened eye, but the other boy had a shattered nose, and more than a few bruised ribs. Leto had been a bit proud of himself over that one. Just thinking about it brought a hint of a haughty grin to his face. Danarius reached over him, unlocking the chain from its place on the wall, and urged the young elf to his feet.

“I have a few things for you to change into,” Leto’s new master said, putting a change of clothes in his arms.

He stared down at the cotton tunic and leather fencing trousers, waiting for Danarius to leave him to change. After a moment, it became obvious he wasn’t going to turn his back. Leto shrugged off the light coloured linens, not without a bit of irritation, and tugged the cloudy grey tunic over his shoulders, and stepped into the tawny trousers. He ran his hands up the front of his thighs- a nervous motion. He had absolutely no idea as to what he was doing in clothing worn by soldiers in training.

Danarius lead his charge down the ornate flight of steps to the mansion’s inner courtyard. The periphery of the open space was dotted with trees and flowers. The air was pleasant, and the breeze carried with it sweet scents of seasonal blooms and warm earth. Leto took a deep breath. It was a good morning. He enjoyed being outside as often as possible. A wooden sword was shoved into his hands by a woman who looked as sharp as the weapon this toy was made to mimic. She was clad in clothing very similar to his own, showing off her toned arms.

“Flavia is a master swordswoman. A talent unparalleled in the Tevene Military. A saporati of ineffable worth,” Danarius explained.

This sharp-edged woman, Flavia, saluted, in a manner just as severe, “You honour me, Altus.”

“What is she doing here?” Leto asked, before he could catch himself.

Danarius gave him a cold look, and sighed, “I had hoped it would be obvious to you. I had not thought of you as slow of wit. She is here to train you in swordsmanship.”

Slow of wit, his ass. Leto scuffed at the ground with his bare soles, a bit vexed. He had never heard of a master voluntarily teaching his slaves to fight. In what possible way could he have assumed this woman was his teacher?

“I shall leave you to you lessons. And Flavia? Please… do not coddle him. I do not need a flawed weapon.”

Leto watched him go, with vague interest, only to find himself smacked in the back of the head with the hilt of a training sword, “Ach… Fasta Vass…!” He rubbed at the aching spot furiously.

“You watch your tongue, slave,” Flavia snapped, “I do not usually stoop so low as to teach elves. And certainly not knife-ear slaves, but your master has given me quite the sum to do so.”

Leto could feel his face turn cold and angry, but he knew better than to argue with a woman holding a sword. He just huffed and kept his tongue glued to the back of his teeth, where it wouldn’t get him run through. She gestured to the wooden sword hanging in his hand.

“Pick up that weapon, elf, and let me see the temper Lord Danarius warned me of,” she lifted her own training sword and swung it at him without warning, and Leto raised his arm to block it, not remembering he also held a weapon.

The blow landed hard, and the arm that took it felt the repercussions, amazing amounts of pain, and then numbness. It felt to his side and he cursed again, moving back to avoid another swing should one come. All that came was a slap to the face. In his bitterness he sincerely wondered if this was going to become a regular occurrence.

Flavia grabbed his wrist- the one attached to his sword hand- and lifted it, demonstrating the proper way to block an overhead strike, “You were given a sword, elf. Use it.”

“You hadn’t shown me how,” Leto nearly hissed, giving this reproachful woman a glare.

“You must learn quickly. I don’t have the patience for laziness and ineptitude. Again.” She swung the sword again, this time from the side. Leto jumped a bit, and dipped his weapon to intercept it, cutting it short. Flavia quickly brought it back, and jabbed it at his chest, knocking the wind out of him, and forcing him to his knees. He gasped and rolled onto his side, only to receive a sharp kick to the ribs.

“Get up. I will show you the blocking for the first sweep. Then we will move on to parries. If you’d like to avoid bruises, I suggest you listen,” Flavia pulled him to his feet, and positioned his feet and arms properly. This woman was beginning to get on his nerves. What sort of teacher gives you no direction, and demands spontaneous perfection? Such a method seemed lunacy to him.

“A good blow to the head, with any weapon, is a crippling shot on the part of the victim,” Flavia said, going through the motions of the above head swing again, only to bring it down gently on Leto’s raised sword, “You must master this block first. It must be second nature to you, unless you’d like your head cleaved in two.”

“Not something I want, no,” Leto mumbled tersely.

“Ah, so it does have bite to it? Excellent. I was beginning to assume you vacuous, and nothing but a pretty face.”

“Vacuous?” Leto asked, offended. He made a silent oath to himself that he would give her a good sock in the jaw.

“Now, knife-ear, we’ll practice the above the head block. I will slow down my attacks, and speed them up each blow.” She raised her sword again, and lunged forward. Leto lifted his up to meet it, and stepped back, bending his knees to better absorb the impact. Flavia smirked, and came at him again, forcing him back another step. He found himself backed up against an almond tree. Flavia’s smirk widened as she jabbed her sword forward, aiming for his chest again. Leto dropped his play sword to the ground, reaching above his head, and yanking himself into the branched, just barely out of range. Flavia scoffed, and swung the sword at his feet. But he jumped up, latching on to a higher branch, scrambling to get himself above her reach.

“Get down here! You are not being trained to climb like a child,” Flavia said, lowering her sword. She was obviously irritated, and it brought a smile to Leto’s face. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree, crossing his arms.  
“You can’t hit me up here,” He said, a snide tone to his winded voice, “It seems like the safest place to be.”

“Come down,” Flavia repeated, “We are not done here. Master Danarius wanted me to beat some skills into you, and I shall do just that!”

Leto thought a moment. Upsetting Danarius wasn’t his goal. And it was probably not wise to do so on his second day as his slave. He shimmied down from the tree, and picked up the wooden sword. He swung it a few times at the empty air, before turning back to his trainer, and taking the defensive stance, “Why am I not given a shield?”

Flavia curved the sword over her head and down again, “You won’t be needing one. Danarius’ orders.”

Leto was about to question her about the exact nature of the orders, when the attacks started to come from the side with a bark from Flavia to recall the instinctive block he had managed earlier.  
The onslaught continued in that fashion until noontide, when the bells of the local chantry sounded over the entire manor. An elf from the kitchen staff headed into the courtyard, interrupting the clacking of wooden swords, and occasional bouts of cursing from both parties.

“Leto?” she asked, “Master has asked you serve him midday meal. He requested you by name.”

He handed his sword over to Flavia, rolling his stinging shoulders, “Me? O-of course… right away.” He made to leave the garden but Flavia cleared here throat.

“The polite recruits I’ve trained all salute me before taking their leave, elf. Are you less than them?”

Leto shook his head, and offered a clumsy, but well intended, military salute, earning himself a nod from his teacher.

The kitchen hand motioned for him to follow, talking as they went, “We’ll bathe you quickly, and dress you properly. And then you should go. His midday is already prepared.”

Leto blew his bangs from his eyes, and let himself be lead to the kitchen. Ever since he was purchased and brought to the palace, everything had been one thing after another. He had barely had time to catch his breath. It occurred to him as he watched kitchen staff finish his master’s lunch that he hadn’t even had time to miss Varania.

“Arms above your head,” The kitchen hand said sharply.

Leto did as told, “What? Why-“ his tunic was lifted over his head without a hint of tact.

He was quickly shucked of his trousers as well, objecting all the while. The kitchen elves doused him in cold water, and towelled him off, not caring too much for his comfort. His was redressed in a simple white cotton shift, his chest left bare once again, and they rubbed something on their hands, and ran them over his arms and chest, leaving him shining, “… what is all this?”

“Scented oils. It wouldn’t be proper for you to serve master Danarius looking disheveled,” Erenthal explained as he set down a grand platter of food and drink.

Leto scoffed, “what did he expect? Sword fighting with a madwoman tends to be disheveling.”

Erenthal laughed, “I like you, kid. Take that tray to the master. He’s up in his quarters- in the study.”

Leto rolled his eyes, and took the tray dutifully, and headed up the stairs to the Master suite. He figured he should knock, but it was either put the tray down to do so, or forget the convention entirely. The later seemed like the better option, so he let himself in. He was taken aback by the peaceful scene he encountered. Danarius was once more seated at his desk, but in the golden rays of high noon flooding through the curtains, the desk and its occupant were gilded in dappled light. There were subtle specks of dust dancing through the glowing streams, twinkling like small daytime stars. Danarius’ face was relaxed, as he penned down notes in a leather bound notebook, his fingers tracing over lines of old text in the tome splayed open under his gaze.

Leto cleared his throat, “Master? Midday meal… you asked me to bring it to you?”

“Ah… Leto, yes. Thank you. Please. Set the tray here.”

He put the platter down on the clear spot on the desk, stepping back, and awkwardly shifting, trying to figure out what to do with his arms- ultimately settling for locking them behind his back.

Danarius picked up his fork, and then looked over at his servant, setting the utensil down, “Leto… you look immaculate.”

He shifted again, embarrassed. He could feel his ears burning, and he smiled down at his toes. Immaculate was not a word he could recall ever being used to describe him. He wanted to say thank you, but he found himself tongue tied in bashfulness. Danarius luckily freed him from the labour of concocting a decent response.

“How did your training fair? I hope Flavia was not too easy on you.”

“The woman is mad, sir,” Leto stated, before he could catch himself, “Kaffas… uh- fasta vass, I-“ He wished words were physical things, so he could grab them before they left his mouth.

But Danarius laughed, “She is eccentric. However, not a man has she trained that was not as brutal and precise as she herself. You have a good teacher. And she a good student. I watched a while from my window. You seem to have a natural talent for combat. I have made an excellent selection.”

Leto chewed his lip a moment before deciding to take a monumental risk, “Master? What exactly am I? What have I been brought here to do? You have such a large staff already, why take in one more?”

Danarius paused a long while, “Leto? Have you eaten? It occurs to me I didn’t have Erenthal feed you before I sent you to train.”

Leto let himself give an annoyed huff, before forcing his anger back down into the pits of his stomach. Was he meant to play the part of mystery slave for the rest of his days? “No, master. I haven’t eaten. But I have been bathed… aggressively. By the kitchen hands.”

“Here. Eat off my plate. It won’t do to have you weakened by hunger. You have more training this afternoon.”

Leto nearly cringed. Just what was all this lunacy for? The consolation of food from a master’s plate didn’t seem to placate the worry settling in his throat. He reached forward for the plate, getting bolder with his new Master. Danarius seemed to find his angry outbursts entertaining, and his cheekiness refreshing. He selected a thin slice of cured meat and a thick piece of cheese, popping them into his mouth and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the desk. Danarius smiled at him, running his fingers through his hair, then sweeping them under his chin. Leto was a bit taken aback by the contact, but found it pleasant enough. Many slaves felt frightened of their masters, and in truth, Leto still maintained a reasonable amount of caution and nerves, but he was beginning to feel safe here. And he felt… wanted. Which was something he had only felt sparingly before.

“You… were watching me fight?” He asked, reaching for another slice of cheese.

“Of course,” Danarius nodded, “I was curious if my choice was correct. As I told you, I selected you for your temperament and tendency to… solve problems physically.”

“But why would that be of use to you? A slave prone to violence isn’t a good thing. My mother always chided me, telling me if I didn’t demure, I’d never find a kind master,” Leto said.

“Perhaps it is time I told you the task you’ll be assigned,” Danarius said, closing his books, “I am a very capable mage. But I have many enemies in the magisterium. You’re to be my… watchful companion.”

“Like a bodyguard?” Leto asked, intrigued.

“Just so,” Danarius nodded, “hence the reason I purchased a temperamental elf with a history of fistfights. Now. You should get to your other studies. You must learn swordsmanship, weapon craft, and endurance.”

“Yes. Of course!” Leto agreed, “I can do that.” A body guard? So he wouldn’t just be some steward. He had an actual post at Danarius’ side. The notion made him feel immensely proud. He could feel the pride swelling behind his ribs.

“Your tutor in weapon and armour maintenance should be in the library,” Danarius opened his book anew and gave Leto a dismissing motion with his hand, “We’ll speak again soon.”

Leto, newly invigorated with the idea of being body guard to a Magister, practically leapt to his feet, “Yes sir! Right away.”


	3. Chapter 3

Things continued this way for the next few weeks.  
Leto came to enjoy his morning sparring matches with Flavia. She might have been mad, and impossibly stubborn, but they butted heads in a pleasant manner. She even stopped calling him “slave” and “knife-ear” and referred to him by name. Erenthal started making up two lunches for Danarius and Leto. He would bring his master midday meal, and Danarius would ask after his studies. Though, he had been a bit distant of late. Something he was researching seemed to be taking all of his time. Leto liked the weapons training as well- he preferred blades to blunt weapons, and he was developing a fondness for claymores. He enjoyed the heft and presence of larger swords. They made him feel invincible. His late afternoon sessions were the ones he detested- even feared. Pain was the downfall of even the bravest soldiers. Danarius’ spy master, Hellmyn, was also an adept interrogator. He knew every painful way to loosen a tongue. Leto’s Master had told him he needed to be capable of withstanding pain and torture- and never back down, or divulge information. He needed to be stone, and Hellmyn was more than pleased to carve into him to aid in that endeavour. Leto had a rash of fresh scars up his sides and arms, and welts from lashings on his back and thighs. The collar he worn around his neck that locked him in at night, had rubbed and chaffed enough that he sported a ring of toughened skin underneath it. If he had been able to remove the iron band, he would have still been wearing a collar of sorts. He mused on the notion of asking Danarius to teach him to read and write, but after how perturbed he’d been when he’d thought he could spy on his work, he thought better of it. Danarius himself spent less time by Leto’s side, and more time in his Arcanum- his research laboratory- performing experiments on various incaensors like Lyrium and fade-touched substances purchased from the dwarves of the surface Merchant’s Guild. But as a small gift of apology, he had enchanted a sliver of quartz to glow a soft pink at night. Leto kept it by his bed.

One of the things that often rattled around in his head was how proud Varania would be of him. He had always been quick to pounce on anyone- elf, human, even Qunari once- that dared impugn his younger sister’s honour and ever blossoming talent with magic. She always patched him up, teasing him about his temper, and warning him it would get him in a world of trouble. She would have been pleased to be proven wrong. Even so, if she saw his new scars and blooms of bruises on his back and stomach, she’d be worried. When Leto’s mind wasn’t occupied by his strange curriculum of studies, or utterly empty from exhaustion, it always went back to Varania. He wanted to see his family. He got up the strength to ask Danarius if he could visit her, and he had said no. As the loneliness ate at him, he asked again. And once more. The final time he asked, he found himself with a bruised cheek from a vicious back handed slap. Of course, Danarius was right. Seeing her would just make things harder. The bruise didn’t fade for a week, but every time Danarius saw it, he’d run his thumb over it gently. Leto took this as a form of apology.

“He’s been holed up in the Arcanum for weeks now,” Erenthal said, tossing a bit of salt into the lamb stew he was preparing for supper, “Has he said anything to you? I’m not complaining, of course. The longer he stays away from my kitchen and my workers the better. You know, the last time he was in here, he gave Kenly a broken nose? Maker, I couldn’t believe it. And Menna? He burnt her hair near clean off. Her eyebrows haven’t been the same since.”

Leto tapped his fingers on the counter, “He hasn’t told me fuck all.”

“Nothing? You two seem close. Why is he so kind to you, I wonder?”

“Because he says I’m special,” Leto said apologetically, “I’ve gotten strong.”

“You have. You have. You’ve put on fifteen pounds in the months you’ve been here. There’s even some colour in that sour face of yours,” The cook teased, pinching his sides.

“My face is not sour!” Leto said defensively, “I smile all the time.”

“Is that what that strange leer is? Maker’s ass, you should warn people.”

Leto gave him a genuine smile, and a full-bodied laugh, “I should. You know…Master says he likes my smile.”

“Does he now? Never heard him say anything like that,” Erenthal said, setting down silver and the dinner bowls, “Did he say anything about your shiny elfy eyes? - set the tray up, would you boy?”

“He did. He said they were nice,” Leto said smugly, putting the dinner ware on the serving tray.

“Be careful, Leto,” Erenthal sighed, “I’ve not known Master Danarius to be kindly without ulterior motive.”

“You’ve not, have you..?” Danarius asked from the doorway, “That’s interesting, coming from you, Erenthal. You, who I sheltered, and fed. The bastard offspring of one of my dearest colleagues, and her elven serving boy. How much do you get a month from Magister Fellisa? 200? 300? To keep silent, yes? What would happen to both of you should this information get out?”

Erenthal stiffened, “Y-yes. I apologize sir. Forgive me, Master.”

“Little wolf? Would you describe me as kindly?” Danarius asked, running his fingers around the shell of Leto’s ear.

“Yes! Very much!” He answered quickly.

Danarius smiled at him, “Thank you, Leto,” he wandered over to the trembling chef, grabbing a hold of his wrist and squeezing, “you might learn a thing or two from this little pup. He’s the zenith of fidelity. Unlike some.” The mage grabbed Erenthal’s fingers and wrenched then backward, resulting in a sickening snapping sound, “… I’ll call a healer for your hand. Leto. Serve us dinner, we’ll take it upstairs.”

Leto nodded frantically, grabbing a ladle with shaking hands, “U-uh… Yes. Of course, Master. Why don’t you go ahead of me?”

Danarius sighed, “I was hoping we could walk together, but if you insist.” He patted Leto’s shoulder, and left the kitchen, giving Leto time to set down the ladle, and rush to Erenthal.

“… He broke your fingers…” He stammered, grabbing the ailing hand.

“Did he really?” Erenthal hissed through his teeth, “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“… I’ve had broken fingers before. Did you want me to wrap them..?”

“No… you should get to the Master. Before his wrath is turned towards you,” Erenthal said urgently, “look kid. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. I’m not some doe-eye scullery maid. Get. Before he comes looking for you.”

Leto spooned stew into the bowls and grabbed a second set of silver, rushing the tray up to his Master’s quarters “Sir…?”

Danarius was holding the enchanted crystal up to get a good look, “Some of this magic has faded. I’ll have to recharge it. I’m sorry I haven’t been very present. I have finished my research, and I should be able to spend more time checking in on your training. Tell me. How are you combat skills coming?”

“I beat Flavia in a short skirmish yesterday,” Leto offered, his voice wavering. His mind was still occupied with the sound of Erenthal's fingers cracking under force, “She might have let me win. But she seemed pretty angry.”

“Excellent. You’re progressing well,” Danarius set down the quartz sliver, and sat at his desk, “Let us eat our dinner before it grows cold. Come sit with me.”

Leto did as told, eating quietly. He had seen Danarius angry only a few other times since his purchase. Just as Erenthal had said, he’d seen him terrorize the Kitchen staff, with the same cold disdain, and calculated cruelty. The scullery maids and stable hands were equally intimidated. He had heard whispers that slaves with magic- incaensors- were going missing. Not a one had returned, and people were starting to whisper. They finished their meal in silence, and the night-round servant cleared their plates and Leto was locked into his corner for the evening.

Danarius sat awake in bed, reading, glasses perched on his nose. He looked over at his dutiful slave, chained to the wall across from his own bed.

“Leto?” he called, “Come here, little wolf.”

Leto heard the chain clink behind him, leaving him free to climb onto the bed, sitting on the edge patiently.

“No… come all the way here.”

Leto complied. Danarius shut his book and drew him in closer, tracing his hands up Leto’s chest slowly. It was unexpected contact, but he found it… calming and pleasant, “Master?”

“I was going to thank you for working so hard for me,” Danarius said, his voice low and soft.

Leto was about to question him further, but he felt something odd. A gentle heat was radiating from the palm on his chest. He looked at his master, curious.

“There… that’s not too warm is it?”

Leto shook his head numbly. To the contrary; the heat was doing wonders on his sore muscles. He felt relaxed, even leaning into the contact ever so slightly.

Danarius chuckled, “Come a bit closer if you’d like.” Leto moved in a bit, cautious. He had seen what his Master’s magic was capable of, and he didn’t want the dark side of it faced towards himself, “tell me if you feel afraid,” Danarius added, as if he had read the elf’s thoughts. Leto nodded again as his Master moved the hand lower, over his stomach, tracing the newly toned edges, “You’ve gotten quite strong, haven’t you? I couldn’t be more proud.”

Leto smiled. He was the only slave in Danarius’ care to receive regular praise. It made him feel tall.

“And what a smile,” Danarius continued, “I hope you only show that to me… I never want you to smile like that at anyone else. They’ll taken you away from me in a heartbeat.” He moved his hands down to Leto’s hip, and he flinched, “Oh, no… no… it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you feel something nice.”

Leto let out a long, trembling breath. He moved in even closer, letting his Master dip his hand under his smallclothes. He gasped at the intimate contact, nervous. He had never been touched in this manner. He’d been relatively intimate with a few slaves from his old Master’s place- Kissing pretty boys in closets, hands over clothing, tongues running along the inside of his teeth- but never this.

Danarius stroked his hand along his length slowly, increasing the heat radiating from his fingers. Leto let out a long breath, letting his eyes flutter shut, and tiny sounds fell from his lips. Contented sounds, little moans. He tried to form words, but it all came out as shameful whimpering, “M… m... master…” He blushed, mortified.

Danarius sped up his movement, and Leto bit his bottom lip. Every inch of his body felt strained, but in a way he found absolutely intoxicating. His stomach was in knots, and warmth flowed through his limbs. The only thought that was clear in his blank mind was the fact that his master loved him. He would never hurt him like he hurt the others. He was special and important. Danarius leaned in, pressing his lips to Leto’s throat, making his head swim.

The young elf shuddered, feeling tightness low in his stomach. All at once, the tension was released, and he felt waves of heat and pleasure wash over him. He cried out, all attempts to be silent failing. He felt dazed, and fell forward into his master’s chest, embarrassingly aware of his newly damp and sticky smallclothes, “I… I’m sorry, sir…”

Danarius removed his hand, and smiled, “There you go, little wolf… oh maker, you look tired now. Best get back to you bed. I’ll come lock you in.”

Leto let himself be lead to his cushion, and the chain linked to his collar was fastened to the wall. He watched his master walk back to his own bed, feeling a strange desire to follow. He blinked sleepy eyes, and laid his head down on his pillow with a sigh. He wanted to be in the comfortable bed, under the plush covers. That kiss lingered on his neck. He could practically feel the breath on his throat, and the light scratch of facial hair on his skin. He shut his eyes tight. He had never felt necessarily attracted to his master. But he was overcome with a need to crawl into that bed, and feel warm and safe. His master was a dangerous man. Leto had seem him hurt other slaves, and perform violent magic, but next to him he felt like an exception. Like perhaps he was worth more than his origin suggested. Like maybe a slave could be something great. He curled up, pressing his knees into his chest, and focused on falling asleep. He wouldn’t dwell on this need to be in that bed, with lips pressed between his shoulder blades. It was nonsense.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an issue with making too many pretty 'vint boys. And apparently Leto has trouble resisting them (so I guess everyone wins)

He awoke early the following morning, shifting into his cotton training tunic and leather trousers, and washing his face in his master’s washbasin, before tending to morning duties, opening the draperies, making his bed- as much as one could organize a simple velvet cushion and three pillows. The ceramic pitcher in which his Master kept drinking water, was placed just out of the range of his leash, so he was unable to pour Danarius a cup of water for the morning. He was certain he would understand.

His morning chores done, he took a seat on his bed, and pondered the day. Perhaps he’d win another bought with his trainer? Perhaps there would be something spicy for midday meal. The thought made his stomach growl, and he scowled, as if concentrating would keep it from happening again. It protested, perforce, only growling louder. His master stirred, sitting up in his bed.

“My dear boy… you’re hungry? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t dare, Master. You seemed quite tired.”

He heard the chain links clank free behind him, as the mage sat up a bit taller.

“Fetch me my robe, Leto. And we’ll fetch you a special breakfast before your new coursework today,” Danarius said.

“Not hungry. New work?” Leto asked, standing up and heading to the armoire, and fishing out a robe in deep reds and blues, and folding it neatly on the foot of the bed, before pouring his master the glass of water he had neglected.

Danarius stood, getting dressed, fastening the buttons of his robes, “What a lovely selection, little wolf. Thank you. Now you asked about the new tutors?”

“What manner of study is it?” Leto nodded, handing the Magister the drink.

“My fellow Magisters are holding a gala. The matter, of course, is business, but the courtly festivities remain. I imagine you’ve not learned any manner of dance or etiquette?”

Leto looked down at his toes, “Er… no, ser.”

The mage smiled, “Not to worry. I’ve hired a teacher for you.”

“You mean… I’m attending?”

“Of course, little one. You’re my protection, are you not?” Danarius said, reaching out his hand and running his thumb over Leto’s cheek softly.

Leto smiled up at his Master, “Yes, ser. Yes! Give me a sword, and I’ll let nothing befall you!”

“That is what I like to hear,” Danarius nodded, “As such, you will need to see my tailor. Your normal attire would not be germane to a Magister’s Gala.”

“Your tailor!” Leto said, lighting up even brighter, “I have never been to a tailor!”

“Something in black. Something sleek. I’ll have your hair done as well.”

“Ah! Master, thank you!” Leto practically buzzed. He was not usually a vain sort, and in his daily life had not a care for his outward appearance, but the concept of being doted on in such a way was enough to excite him. He’d be dressed in fine cloth, and his hair would be swept up and out of his face in one of those courtier styles- perhaps elegant plates. He’d look to all the world like an altus, right up to the ears. Perhaps he would look fit to be at Danarius’ side.

“Mm… I’m sure you’ll look lovely,” The Magister said, “let us head to the grand ballroom.”

Leto let himself be lead down a new part of the mansion, absorbing every detail. It wasn’t often he experienced anyplace novel or unknown. He wasn’t usually the type to glow about a large social event, but this was an exception. He could prove himself to Danarius, show how much he’d grown. His master would be so proud. Conversely, being by his master’s side, armed to the teeth would certainly make other mages in the magister’s circle think twice. Or perhaps he was overvaluing himself just a touch. His gleeful self-involvement was cut short by his face bumping into the halted back of Magister Danarius, who gave him a small smile.

“Where exactly was your mind, little elf?” He teased, “Come now. You mustn’t let it wander so, or you’ll not learn a thing today.”

“Right. Please forgive me, dominus,” Leto nodded.

Danarius opened the door to the ball room, leading Leto to a slight man, nose buried in a book, “Leto. This is Aelius of House Cassian, second son of Magister Jovius Cassian… a well educated man, to be certain. He is a historian, priding himself on extensive knowledge of courtly endeavours of our Imperium throughout the Ages. Our current century is no exception.”

The young man seemed to be only a few years Leto’s senior. At most he was twenty. He had long dark hair, which was tied up in a neat pony-tail high on his head, but a few strands had escaped their confines, framing his face. The face itself was thin, but soft, and his eyes, a golden brown, seemed to be perpetually cheerful. Aelius smiled, setting aside the worn tome he had been engrossed with, and offered Leto his hand, “Avannas, ser.”

Leto’s mouth fell agape, and he started at the outstretched hand dumbly. A human- an altus. A magister’s son- wished to shake his hand. An altus had just called him “ser.”

Danarius nudged him, “Leto. Your manners. Again.”

Leto came to his senses and shook the man’s hand, “A-avannas, altus.”

“Please. If I am to teach you to dance, we’ll be inevitably close. Call me Aelius. Your name again?”

“Leto,” He answered.

“Leto,” Aelius echoed, “A good name. Very strong… though not the name of a dancer.”

Leto bristled, “And just how would you know that?”

Aelis laughed, a gentle sound, full of life, “I jest, ser. I jest.”

Danarius cleared his throat, “Little wolf? Will you be alright here alone? I have other matters to attend to.”

“Of course, master. What danger would I be in from a… fop?”

Aelius laughed again, “I deserved that.”

“Very well. I shall leave you,” Danarius nodded.

Aelius turned his smile towards Leto, and put on hand on his shoulder, “ever danced before?”

“My master’s head slave, Ghildra was married last summer. I admit to dancing then, a few drinks under my belt,” Leto said.

“Not entirely certain that’s the dancing I mean,” Aelius gave him a bemused look, “You danced? At a slave wedding? I wasn't aware slaves were permitted to marry.”

“Not officially, but we have ceremonies nonetheless. Do you altus not dance at your weddings?”

“We do. I’ve just not been able to study the traditions of slaves. Tell me-“ Aelius sat down on the floor unceremoniously, drawing out a leather-bound notebook and quill, “- the slave. This Ghildra. Was she of elven descent?”

Leto stared at him blankly, “yes. She was…”

“The dances your people do… are they traditional? I mean, like the um… what are they called? The Dalish? Are they like the dalish dances?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not dalish,” Leto said flatly, “we dance like you do. Except I’m sure we’re more fun.”

“I don’t doubt that in the slightest. Weddings among the altus are rarely enjoyable. My elder brother, Tacitus was wed to a deplorable woman called Cornelia to preserve the line. Wonderful food and drink, however. And decent company, the bride excluded.”

Leto let himself smile, “Aren’t you here to teach me to dance properly?”

“Right. I forget myself,” Aelius said, closing the notebook with a sheepish grin, “You’ll have to teach me how your people dance after I show you how mine dance. Tell me, ser. Do you read?”

“No.”

“Well then. I can certainly work around that. I will have to show you rather than let you read.”

“You intended to make me read about dancing?” Leto asked, incredulous, “what loon makes someone read about dancing? I have a healthy interest in history, but… books on dancing…”

“Alright, alright. You’ve made your point,” Aelius sighed, “I’ve not taught someone to dance before. Have patience with me.”

“Have you ever considered… just showing me?”

“You wouldn’t mind be led by a man?”

“And why should I?”

“Then, ser, we’ll start with some of the more modern dances currently the rage in the Orlesian court. Those shall be at the forefront of the festivities, naturally. Then we shall work our way back to more traditional dances.”

“Perfect, do we have music?” Leto cast about for anything resembling a musical instrument, finding nothing.

“Music will come once you’ve learned your steps. Come here and place your hand on my shoulders and one in my own, if you are to be learning the part of the follower,” Aelius opened his arms in welcome.

Leto set his hand on Aelius’ shoulders limply, unsure if he was meant to hold on to it, or just rest there. It felt a bit strange; Aelius was slight, his shoulders not even the width of Leto’s palms. He was concerned that were he to grip them, they would shatter under his fingertips. For all his lack of mass, the young Altus was half a head taller than Leto, creating a strange dynamic. He was certain he could pick the older man up with ease. He outwardly smirked, considering an attempt.

“… Why are you making that face?”

“Nothing. Is it customary for sons of powerful magisters to eat so little?”

“You’d be surprised by my appetite- oh Maker… that came out sounding all wrong, didn’t it? Now take my hand. If I am leading, I will move my left foot forward first. You need to move your right back with it, understood? Like a… inverse mirror of sorts.” He made the step, and Leto met it easily, “Now my right, your left- joins the other. Side by side. There’s a six rhythm to it. One two three, one two three.”

“One two three…” Leto muttered, staring at his feet.

“Alright, now your left- no your left- comes forward, my right comes back. One two three, one two three. There should be a gentle spin to the steps. And why are your hands so limp, ser? You are allowed to hold on a bit.”

“Right, I’m sorry,” Leto said, firming his grasp a bit.

“Now about this wedding dance. Was it like this one? With partners? Or more like a circle? Like the dances at festivals?” Aelius asked, moving his left foot forward once more.

“Festival. Like the celebrations during the summer months, or harvest.”

“And is this common?”

“Fairly. If we’re to make insipid small talk, then I have to ask- why is a powerful mage teaching a slave to dance for a magister’s ball?” Leto asked.

“Oh, I’m no mage.”

Leto’s mouth nearly fell agape for the second time that day, “You’re… not a mage?”

“No. I’m soporati. A fluke, my father calls it. My parents have magic deep in their bloodlines, and yet... Why do you think I’m resigned to be a court historian?”

“I just assumed you enjoyed the work,” Leto answered.

“Oh I do. I love every moment. Though at times I wish I could flick my wrists and dazzle the world as my brother can, but it was not meant to be. You’re light on your feet for a bodyguard.”

“I’m an elf. We don’t weight much.”

“So you do tell jokes? Excellent. I can never seem to get myself to stop, so I’m glad to be in similar company,” Aelius said with that easy smile, “One two three… would you like to try being spun? I’ll lift my arm like so and-“ Leto moved under it spinning slowly, whispering the rhythm all the way, “-oh! Good! You think you try leading me?”

It was at this point that Leto noticed that Aelius’ free hand was resting firmly on the small of his back. It was nice to have contact, even if it was from a stranger. It was a desire left in him from the events of the night before, and mortifying as it might have been, he relished the touch, “No. In all honesty, I’m enjoying this. Could we move on to other dances?”

“Of course. If you wish. Perhaps something with a bit more life to it?” Aelius said, “Something fast? You’re graceful, but are you quick, ser elf?” He quirked his brow a bit.

“I believe so.” Leto said, matching the expression.

The older man, set his hands on Leto’s hips, lifting him and twirling him, “Orlesian dances are all about poise, and find themselves into our practices easily, the Fereldan dances are more… visceral… and uncommon in Tevinter. But I find them far more fun.”

“Visceral…” Leto echoed. The word felt good on his tongue. Poise and ceremony was something he was becoming adept at, however, he preferred things to be physical.

“Lovely word, is it not? Sounds like exactly what it means,” Aelius mused, “Now, come. We’ll begin this one with a step to the right, then back.”

Leto found, strangely, that these dances caused him to break out in a sweat just as if he were swing his blade. He laughed often, stumbled at times, and he inevitably trod on the young Altus’ toes.

Aelius had let down his hair halfway through, and tied it back up into a messy pile atop his head. Once it was close to tumbling into his eyes once again, he declared that it was time to transition to the study of courtly manners. They wandered into the grand library, and selected a table towards the back, Aelius drawing diagrams and charts- nothing with words- to describe various ways to address people.

“Of course you could always use ser if you get confused,” He said.

“Master Cassian, I doubt many courtiers will be addressing me personally. And if they do it won’t be for idle conversation. I am only learning to dance so I don’t stick out like a Fereldan farmer in a Val Royeaux market.”

“You’ve never been to either place,” Aelius teased lightly.

“I’m more than sure that you have,” Leto responded.

“… I suppose you’re correct- about the courtiers, at least. And no, I have been to Val Royeaux on many an occasion. But Fereldan? Never had reason. Hear their cuisine leaves much to be desired,” Aelius muttered, “Nevertheless… you really should learn court manners. Not just the manners between slave and master. The manners used between equals. If you really want to scare the Magisterium, speak to them as one of them.”

“And you believe I can do that, and keep my head attached to my neck?” Leto marvelled, “You’re daft.”

“At Danarius’ side, I’m sure you have leeway to spare,” Aeluis brushed a long strand of hair behind his ear, “If you want to intimidate them, show that you’re a force to be reckoned with, make eye contact, speak clearly. Within reason. As you said, your head looks very nice attached to your body. It would be best for all if it were to stay that way.”

“I’d very much like that, yes.”

“When you talk to them, I would avoid calling them Master. Use Magister, or ser as I mentioned. I would also recommend you refer to your own Master as dominus while there. As brave as you want to seem, you should always display supplication to Magister Danarius. This will not only keep you safe, and show devotion to him, but it will also show that only he has the right to own you. It’s a challenge, and it will ruffle petticoats like winds from the Fade.”

“Understood. Thank you,” Leto nodded.

“While we’re on the subject, please don’t call me Master Cassian. I’m far too young for a title like that.”

“If that’s what you want. Though it will take some adjustment. I’m not used to referring so causally to people above my station,” Leto admitted, “Lord Aelius, then?”

“Just Aelius.” The historian grinned, “You’re only two years my younger, and you’ve already seen me with my hair down- I believe that warrants a slight familiarity.”

Leto smiled back, about to ask why he was so embarrassed by his hair when his master’s hand fell gently on his shoulder.

“Leto? My tailor has arranged to meet us in my quarters. He has to take your measurements and he’s brought a selection of materials for you to consider.”

Leto turned his smile up at his master, “Really? Yes! Let’s go!”

“We take our leave, Cassian,” Danarius said coolly, “Leto will be returned to your capable hands tomorrow.”

“Ah. Of course. He’s been an excellent student,” Aelius said.

“Come, Leto,” Danarius grabbed his ward’s arm, in a not entirely gentle manner, and led his from the library.

“I hope to impress you at the gala, master,” Leto said, keeping stride with the mage easily.

“I’m sure you will, pup. You never cease to impress me,” Danarius nodded, making their way up the stairwell, and into the Magister’s quarters, where an elder woman was waiting.

Leto was placed on a small pedestal, and a marking tape was run over every inch of his body, and he was presented with a set over fabrics, all in deepest black and rich brown. He buried his fingers in the thin black velvet. He loved the way it felt against his skin. It was warm and soft and felt like the covering on his bed, it was comforting. He was certain it would quickly overheat him at the gala, but he chose it regardless. The tailor showed him small silver buttons, inlayed with obsidian, and a mossy green for the accents- echoed his eyes, she said. He was sized for shoes, which he complained about. He had never worn shoes much, and felt they decreased his movement. Danarius insisted, and he relinquished the argument. The wardrobe he was to wear was complicated by Leto’s standards, and quite simple by the standards set by many members of the magisterium. A simple high-collared shirt, with green ribbing, a sash and coat-tails in the same woodland shade, plain trousers with specialized buckled fitted for weapon holsters, and soft soled shoes- a compromise. He was given elaborate clips for his hair, winding ivy made of silverite and tiny buds of emerald. Leto was beginning to feel very self-conscious, but it was hard to hide the hint of delight.

After the tailor was finished, Danarius locked Leto in by his bed. It was early for it, but Leto could hardly protest after being shown such unparalleled generosity.

His master left with the tailor, to arrange for what weapons would be carried at the gala, leaving the young elf alone, dazed by the day’s activities. He stared at the bed across from him, thoughts of the night before washing over him anew. The fingers tracing over his stomach, and over his hip. He warm breath on his throat. He felt tightness settle low inside him, and he shivered. He shifted uncomfortably, attempting to conceal the fact that his training trousers had become quite a bit snugger. He made quick work of the clasp, freeing himself slightly. He let out a long shaky breath, but the tactile memories flooded him perforce, nearly knocking him back. He could nearly hear the sounds he had made in his master’s bed, fresh and ringing in his mind. His lips hungered for kisses that would not come, and the knots in his stomach were becoming harder to ignore. He slid his hand under his smallclothes, gasping at his own touch. He ran his hand over himself, slowly at first, thinking of the feel of someone else. This sort of feeling was not familiar to him. Once or twice he had felt passion for someone, and taken himself into his hands, and been left gasping. But this was a new hunger. He sped his motions, his mind building fantasies of starved lips on his neck, and teeth digging into his shoulder. The strangest thing happened, then. The faceless entity in his mind’s eye changed; dark hair fluttered onto his cheeks, delicate hands at his hips, dainty fingernails leaving red marks over his skin, and golden brown eyes looking at him with desire. He could hear Aelius’ voice, soft sounds falling from his lips, breathless utterances of his name as if it were the word of the Maker himself. He bit his lip sharply, holding back any sounds of his own. He slowed his hand once again, making longer, stronger strokes. He spilled hot, panting, and slick, the name of his new fantasy on his tongue. The golden eyes faded, and dark tendrils of silken hair went with them. All that was left was a dull hum of pleasure, and flushed cheeks.

“… hungry for someone… are we, little wolf?”

Leto gasped at his master’s voice, moving to cover himself, stammering to explain. He was awash in fear and shame.

“… Aelius. He’s a handsome young man. If you had wanted attention, however, you needed only ask. You mustn’t waste yourself like that.”

“Dominus… I didn’t mean… I…” He felt his cheeks burning.

His master’s face was cold, his eyes narrowed in disappointment, “I’ll unlock you. Go to the kitchens and get yourself cleaned up. Then I want you myself… in my bed. By nightfall.”

The chains behind Leto clanked, indicating his freedom. He clasped his trousers again, and dashed from the room, only more than eager to escape the suddenly oppressive air of his Master’s chambers.


	5. Chapter 5

Leto leaned against the wall in the corridor, letting his back come in chilling contact with the cold marble walls, his chest still heaving. Once his heart settled, he stepped away, leaning against the banisters with a hollow sigh. The humiliation coiled hard in his chest. It was a cold burn that twanged at him senses, and brought up waves of subtle fury. He looked from side to side for anything he could slam his fists into. He had shamed himself in front of his Master. He was going to think he was dirty and weak. He couldn’t break this thought. It returned to him, persisting, sharp and continuous. He gripped the railings tight, and squared his jaw, taking the staircase one step at a time. He found his way, numbly, to the kitchens, finding Erenthal scrubbing at his stove, alone. The other staff had retired for the night.

“Hey kid, what- what’s the matter?” He set down his rag, and removed his apron, giving Leto his full attention.

The young elf dodged eye contact, “The master… could you stoke the fire…? He wants me to bathe.”

“You look perfectly clean to me,” the cook mused, stoking the fire regardless.

“He… I…” Leto stammered, “I can’t…”

“No need to explain, kid,” Erenthal shrugged, “You just look real ragged.”

“I think I… I think I made the Master angry with me…” Leto mumbled, looking at his feet, his tightly balled first shaking, “He’s angry with me… I don’t know what to do. I’m not-“ He felt hot tears on his cheeks.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Erenthal made quick strides to take the quivering elf in his arms, “Calm down, kid. It’ll be alright. Master Danarius favours you like I’ve never seen. I’m sure he won’t be angry for long.”

“He’s going to sell me!” Leto lamented, burying his face into Erenthal’s chest, “He’s going to sell me..!”

“Nobody’s getting sold, Leto. Come now, take a seat. Let’s get you some warm milk and honey, yeah? With a touch of cinnamon the way you like. Sit yourself down… there you go…”

Leto tucked his legs into his chest, trying for all the world not to let more frightened tears fall. It was shameful, but he was chilled to the core. Magister Danarius’ wrath was something he had learned to fear through word of mouth, and demonstration. He sniffled, rubbing his running nose on his knee, not wanting to move.

He heard water being poured into the large basin in the back on the kitchen, where the slaves washed. Erenthal offered him a warm mug, but Leto just looked away.

“Fasta vass, Leto, take the cup,” He said gruffly. Leto stared off into the corner, not moving a muscle, “Maker’s ass, here!” He grabbed Leto’s hand, and shoved the drink into it.

Leto sniffled again, but drew the cup to his lips.

“Good. Good. Drink that- Slowly! You idiot child, don’t gulp! With all that cryin’ you’re doin’ you’ll make yourself sick.”

Leto sipped slowly as told, letting the sweet drink warm him, and somewhat settle his nerves, “Th-thanks…”

“Don’t thank me yet. You still look like a nightmare,” Erenthal huffed, “I think I have some of the bathing salts Master Danarius prefers. Mint and Lavender. You think you’d be alright using that?”

Leto nodded, “H-He’d like that…” that was what mattered to him- what was occupying his mind; appeasing the Magister, and garnering the favour he had so carelessly flushed away. Being as lovely as possible when he returned to his master’s quarters would certainly help in that regard. He contemplated using the dark charcoal pens the female slaves used to line their eyes, and perhaps brushing a light rogue on his cheeks. He had never done it before, but it always made people look handsome. Quite possibly, Danarius would like that as well. The master liked his looks; enhancing them could only help.

“The water’s warm, and the salts are in a flask beside the basin,” Erenthal told him, taking the newly empty mug from Leto’s hand, “Go on. Get washed up. We’ll speak again once you’re ready.”

Leto unfolded himself, limb by limb, still feeling numb. He willed himself to the back room, shucking himself of his clothing, and climbing into the bath. The warm water ebbed his tension, his shoulders loosening, and his fists relaxing gradually. The fear still rested deep in his chest, eating at his heart. He kept coming back to the notion that he would be cast out, and all because he found his tutor beautiful. It was so selfish of him. He had no right to imagine such things.

He sunk deeper into the water, the smell of cooling mint and soft lavender flowing over him. That, at least, was a comfort. He ran his hands through his hair, washing the day’s sweat from his tresses. He mused over their length. When he had been purchased, his hair was clipped short, barely coming to meet his brows, and brushing over his ears. Now he found it caressing his shoulders, and dipping close to his collar bones when damp. His master had expressed early on that he preferred Leto have long hair, and as such it hadn’t been clipped in a considerable time.

His thoughts returned to gaining favour from his master, and he pondered putting in up like Aelius’; in a loose bun, high on his head. Danarius would like that, he thought, nodding to himself as he toyed with the concept. He practised, piling his wet hair atop of his head and leaving it, the water holding it fast to itself. He scrubbed himself with the rough soaps given to the kitchen staff, finding his feet were dark with ground in dirt from his constant reluctance to wear shoes. Once his skin glowed gold, clean of all mess and dust, he relinquished himself from the comfort of the warm water, drying off with a rough cloth, left for him by Erenthal. He realised he had not brought a change of clothing with him, and nabbed a deep blue cotton robe from the clothes line nearby. He stole away to the slave’s quarters, where a few of the younger workers were still awake and talking.

They fell quiet as he entered, unsure what to say to the Master’s cherished favourite.

“… I borrowed this robe…” Leto said weakly, “I… forgot my own clothes.”

“It’s Jem’s. She won’t mind,” one of them offered.

“Oh… thank you,” He rubbed the back of his neck, “The… eye pencils? The charcoals? Might I use them?”

“Do you know how?” one of the young women asked, a bit of amusement in her voice.

Leto flushed, “Th-there’s a particular way?”

“Come sit,” She said, drawing the instruments from a cache by her cot, “I’ll do it for you. It won’t do for you to return to the master looking like a qunari in vitaar.”

“Thanks,” He said again, sitting.

“I’m Coelis. And you’re Leto, right?”

“Yes…” Leto nodded. He felt out of place with these workers. Alien. He had worked at the magister’s palace for months, and he hadn’t even had time to learn their names, “I am sorry… I’m not familiar with any of you.”

“That’s Nells, and Ven,” Coelis gestured to her fellow slaves, “We work the kitchen with Erenthal. We’re mostly left to cleaning. Turn to face me.”

The young woman dried his still damp cheeks, and held his face in her hand, drawing the charcoal over the lash-line of his eyes, and on his lower lids as well.

“Why do you want this anyway?” She asked.

“… I think I have upset Master Danarius,” He admitted.

“Hm. Best put on the rogue as well,” Coelis muttered, “And let me put up your hair.”

“You’re being very kind to me. Thank you,” Leto said.

“… if you’ve upset the dominus, we all suffer,” she said bluntly, “Your face is done. Turn around again.”

Leto nodded, and turned his back to her. His hair was tugged mercilessly, and tied back into a tight bun, “Ow! Ow!”

“And you think the ladies of the court bitch like this? You weakling,” Coelis tutted, smacking the back of his head, “You’re finished, Leto.”

He rubbed the back of his head, and then the top of his head, attempting to alleviate the aching in his scalp. He had a new found respect for the women of the magisterium. The elven women shoved him from their quarters with terse but encouraging words, and shut the door, leaving him to face Erenthal in his pampered state.

“You look prim and proper,” The cook said, “the master’s sure to like you. You could pass for a worker down at the local brothel.”

“I should hope I look a bit more polished than that,” Leto griped, feeling decently confident, “Your staff is full of kind people. I regret not speaking with them sooner.”

Erenthal smiled, “Tough ladies, those ones. You should see how Master Danarius treats them. They just turn the other cheek. Not once have they shed a tear or complained. Now. As you said, if the master is angry with you, you should get back upstairs. Go on.”

Leto nodded, shoving the thought of Danarius' punishments far from his mind, “And thank you again… I admit I was a bit of a mess when I came to you.”

“Oh just a bit, were you?” Erenthal said, giving Leto a joking smile.

“Just a bit,” Leto smiled back, trying to surmount the newly growing dread in his stomach, “I’ll take my leave then.”

He made his way up the stairs slowly, coming to the grand carved door of Danarius’ suite. The triumphant mages etched into the wooden face seemed to jeer at him, as they jeered at the empty throne of the black city. Perhaps he could take a page from their book, and stare victorious at the damnation he had brought down. He shook the thought loose, and pressed his palms against it, entering the room as quietly as he could.

The relief that flooded over him was immeasurable, as he saw that his Master had fallen asleep in his bed. He turned to fall into his own comfortable slumber, but he recalled Danarius’ words. He had wanted Leto in his bed. He didn’t dare disobey, lifting the soft covers and climbing into the warmth. He waited a moment before nestling in closer. He closed his eyes and let out a breath he was unware he was holding, hoping to the Maker that relaxation and sleep would soon follow.

Just as he could feel himself drifting, there was a harsh painful grip to his shoulder. He opened his eyes, to find his master looking at him sharply.

“Do not forget I allowed this, pup. I allowed you to dirty yourself with no repercussions. You are mine, and should act as such,” his hands raked through Leto’s tied hair, yanking it painfully from its confines, and that done, he brought Leto into his embrace, tightly, with no regard for the elf’s comfort.

“Yes master, I’m so sorry,” Leto said softly, feeling hot tears burning at his eyes again. His master was a kind man. His Master was so forgiving.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra long one this time

The morning reached him as he lay, half awake, nestled in the warm covers of his master’s bed. He took a moment, relishing the comfort. He felt daring, then, stretching his legs as far as they would go, finding he could unfurl his full height, and still have bed to spare. He made a soft contented noise, and closed his eyes once more, forgetting for a moment the reason for his current cosiness. He would have to request blankets for his own bed someday. Or better yet, perhaps if he performed well, he would be given a bed similar to the one in which he currently found himself. The thought warmed him from the inside out. Not long was he in this state of peaceful contentment, before his master stirred beside him.

“The curtains, Leto,” He muttered, reminding Leto of his morning chores.

“Oh! Yes, master, right away,” He shoved the covers aside, and dashed to the far bay windows, tugging the muslin draperies aside, “Should I send the steward for tea this morning? Or should water suffice?” he made his voice as chipper as it could be, intent on beguiling his master with his diligence.

“Call the boy for tea,” Danarius said, “until then, pour me a glass of water and set out my robes.”

Leto nodded, scratching at his upper arm. It felt sore, and tight, like he had pulled something quite significantly. He took a moment, while he fetched the water pitcher, to glance down at the offending area. The area right below his shoulder had erupted in blooms of purple, black, and sickly grey-green. The bruises twisted around his arms, and he stared at them, wondering where he had gotten such serious contusions. He recalled Danarius grabbing him while they laid in bed, and he sighed. He would need to wear long sleeves. It wouldn’t do for his master to feel guilt. He handed Danarius the glass of water, and began to rifle through his armoire for suitable robes. He selected a piece in a deep blue-green with intricate vines in a silky white colour, “Here you are, ser.”

“Come dress me, Leto,” Danarius said, “And you have forgotten to send the boy for tea. I will not be kept waiting.”

“Right! Just give me a moment,” Leto nodded. He wandered to the door, finding the night-time steward still at his post.

“What can I do for you?”

“The Master would like to take tea in his quarters,” Leto said, “Quickly as possible.”

“Of course. I’ll pass it along.”

Leto ducked back inside and eagerly approached his master, who had removed the night’s clothes, and was awaiting Leto’s help in dressing himself.

Leto obediently pulled the robes onto the magister, fastening the ornate clasps and straightening the lapels, “I hope you enjoy the selection I made.”

“Yes… lovely,” He said.

“Anything else you require before my tutoring?”

“No. we’ll await my tea, and I will walk you to meet young master Cassian,” Danarius said, sitting at his desk, and opening one of his books, “I trust you’ve made it a point to recall the dances you learned yesterday?”

“Yes, ser.”

“And I also trust you won’t give Master Cassian any… undue trouble?” Danarius added, seeming to glance over Leto’s frame, and scribble something down.

“Undue trouble? Of course not,” Leto moved to sit at the foot of the desk like his master liked, and tried on a sweet smile- or at least what he hoped was a sweet smile.

“Ah. Look at you, little pup. You’re trying to make it up to me, aren’t you?” the Magister asked, “Look at those eyes,” he ran his thumb behind Leto’s ear softly, then stroked his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. Leto leaned forward and propped his chin on his Master’s knee.

“Please forgive me, Master,” Leto said, hoping his display was endearing.

“… Tread lightly, and save yourself for me, and all shall be forgiven,” Danarius responded, his eyes soft and gentle. Leto felt the knot in his chest unravel, and he let out a long breath.

One of the kitchen workers brought up the awaited cup of tea, setting it on Danarius’ desk silently. She waited patiently, holding the tray with a small pitcher of cream, and a cup of sugar. The mage lifted it to his lips, taking a slow sip.  
“Cream,” He ordered, setting it pack on the saucer. The kitchen maid obeyed, pouring a bit from her pitcher.

He sipped again, “one sugar cube- no. wait.” He offered the steaming cup to Leto.

Leto nodded, and took it in his hands, taking a small drink. It was spicy and smooth, but just a tinge bitter. He was unsure he liked it. He scrunched up his nose, and handed it back.

“As I thought, then. Two sugars,” Danarius said, and the young girl complied.

“Will that be all, Dominus?” She asked, he voice barely audible.

“Leave us,” Danarius agreed, with a wave of his hand. Once she had gone, he offered Leto the cup again, “Here. See if you prefer it this way.”

Leto took it again, and sipped. Now there was a sweetness to the spice, and he considered it. Yes. He certainly liked it, “It’s good. Thank you.”

“Hold it for me, and blow a bit. It’s far too hot for me. I need to write myself a quick note,” The magister turned to his scrolls, dipping a feather quill into his ink well. Leto stood, keeping the cup steady. He looked over his Master’s shoulder, seeing the intricate designs he was sketching, next to a few groupings of words. The lines themselves resembled vines, but they were sharper, and instead of blossoms or leaves, triads of circles accented the curves.

“Those are nice,” Leto muttered, blowing on the still hot tea in his hands.

“They’re a part of my research,” Danarius answered, shutting the book, “They’re not for prying elven eyes.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Leto said, “you’re tea has cooled.”

Danarius took it from him, and drank in silence. Once finished he set the cup down on the saucer before turning to his charge, suddenly terse, “I will take you to Master Cassian. Then I will leave you. You must promise me you will focus on your studies. I won’t have you bring shame to my house.”

“I wouldn’t! I won’t!” Leto insisted. Had he not still be trying to be as accommodating as possible, he may have pouted and demanded to know why Danarius was so convinced he wouldn’t be tactful at the gala. He bit his tongue. That was a question for another time.

Danarius got up, intending to lead Leto from the suite, before glancing in earnest at his face, “Please go clean your face in the washbasin. You have charcoal and rouge smeared unflatteringly across your cheeks.”

Leto felt a flush rise to his face, dashing over to the basin and looking glass, seeing that, indeed there was smudges of grey and petal pink under his eyes and over his cheeks. He poured water in the basin, and splashed handfuls on his face, scrubbing at it furiously, feeling ashamed.

“Quickly, Leto. Don’t dawdle.”

“Kaffas, ser, it’s hard to remove!” Leto grumbled, taking one final glance in the looking glass to ensure every speck of kohl was gone.

Danarius sighed, and grabbed his arm, “Come now,” he lead him to the ballroom, presenting him once again to a quietly reading Aelius of House Cassian.

“Good morning, Master Danarius. And to you, serah Leto. I hope the night found you well?” Aelius set aside his book, and stood to greet them properly, straightening his- in Leto’s opinion, overly complex- waistcoat.

Leto couldn’t help but smile, but stopped immediately, remembering Danarius’ words regardly ‘undue trouble,’ “and yourself, master Cassian?”

“I dabbled a bit in reconnaissance; I poked and prodded a few members of the orchestra for some information on what they’ll be playing at the Gala. It’s given me a list of the remaining dances I’ll need to teach you. Tell me, ser, do you speak Orlesian?”

« Seulement ce que m'a appris, » Leto answered, his pronunciation a bit shaky.

“Ah, spectacular, regardless,” Aelius grinned, “You’ll hear quite a bit of it at the event. If the two of you speak it, you’ll be able to pick up on anything secretive. Besides. Lovely tongue to hear. Well then, Master Danarius, you can leave your young friend in my decently capable hands.”

“Of course, just one moment,” And the Magister had taken the young altus’ chin in his hand, in what looked like a painful grasp.

Aelius winced, “Magister Danarius-“

“Quiet. Look at me,” Danarius said, his voice low and sombre, “You are a stain on the Magesterium, best you remember that. You shame your family’s bloodline. Know your place, or I will teach it to you.”

Leto clenched his fists, but restrained himself. He had to trust Danarius. Trust that he would never injure another member of the magisterium, no matter how low the rank.

Aelius’ usual placidly cheerful expression turned cold; he locked his jaw, and squared his shoulders, the only indication of his dread was found in his fearful eyes, and shaking knees, and though his eyes were filled with fright, they remained rebelliously locked on those of his captor.

After a long moment, Danarius released the young scholar’s face with a flick of the wrist, leaving the both he and Leto alone, frozen in the hollow room, silent and stiff.

Eventually Aelius moved, smoothing a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, “Maker’s breath that was… bracing,” His voice carried a quiver in it, “Any notion as to what fuelled this surge of sudden aggression?”

Leto knew exactly what fuelled it, but he was not going to admit it, even under torture. He scuffed his heel against the marble floors, “No, ser. I’m not certain.”

“Well. I hardly expect you to be a mind reader,” Aelius sighed, “Now. I trust you recall all that I taught you yesterday?”

“What do you take me for?” Leto smirked, feigning the return of his ease, “you must not be accustomed to people of considerable intelligence.”

“Intelligence is frequent, common sense, a rarity,” Aelius smiled, “As I always say. Come, serah. The same hold I showed you yesterday.”

Leto placed his one hand on the altus’ shoulder, and clasped their free hands together. He loosened his grip a bit, feeling that his partner’s hands were shaking considerably.

“Are you certain you’re up to dancing?”

“Quite. In fact, it should calm me considerably. Just… don’t allow me to lock my knees. I would faint dead away.”

“I’ll be sure to prevent that.”

“How gallant,” Aelius teased.

“I try, master Cassian,” Leto said, tightening his hold on the other’s hand once more, “which dance would you like to begin with?”

They worked a long while, Aelius teaching Leto three new dances, and as per usual Aelius prattled on about whatever came to mind. But Leto found that he was not irritated in the least; he could have listened to him speak for days.

“Your people…?” Aelius began, lifting his arm for Leto to twirl under.

“Slaves?”

“Elves,” the altus clarified, “do you speak elvish?”

“No… I do not,” Leto answered, “I don’t know of anyone that does, save one or two words.”

“Which words?” Aelius asked eagerly, “I’d love to hear them.”

“I told you. I don’t know the words myself. I’ve only heard them a handful of times. One means elder. And the other means humans. My mother did not know any, and so I wasn’t taught.”

“Unfortunate. I would have liked to learn,” Aelius admitted, “None of the magisters I have met give a single care for the elves under their ownership. I find it baffling.”

“Well you’d be the only one, ser,” Leto told him, “you’ll find not even the elves care for the elves. Though a few I know cling to old ways.”

“I find it interesting,” The young scholar smiled, “Besides. The elves are an attractive people. The ears alone have a certain elegance.”

“… hm,” Leto made a noncommittal noise, pressing his hand into Aelius’ leading arm, signalling for another spin.

“Oh, gracious. I didn’t mean to offend,” Aelius chuckled, “I tend to let my mind fall out of my mouth.”

“… What a revolting image…”

Aelius laughed, raising his arm again, “Yes. I suppose so.”

“Should your mind tumble out your mouth and onto the floor, I sure as fuck better not slip on it, Master Cassian.”

The altus practically snorted, “Now that is definitely a revolting image.”

The conversation was easy. Leto was not concerned with covering his outbursts, or curbing his dry sense of humour. With other members of the highest caste, he was always biting his tongue, or apologizing. Though his Master found his foul-mouthed inclinations entertaining, his brashness was something less desirable. Leto pondered this while his feet mapped the now familiar steps across the marble floor, attempting to discern the exact origins of his ease. The simple fact was Aelius was not a mage. There was no threat of burns, or chill. No violence laced with a magic touch. There was no danger. Any motion of Aelius’ behalf to harm him would be easily deterred. Not that he believe it would occur. This notion startled him. No. He honestly did not believe Aelius Cassian would attempt to hurt him.

“Have you seen much of Minrathous, ser?” Aelius asked.

“No. I have not left my masters’ manors all my life.”

“A shame. I should ask you Lord, if we would allow you a day to tour the city. Learning about the way Minrathous runs could only help your education.”

“Education?”

“… Yes. I just assumed you were being educated. Why else would a Magister send for someone to tutor an elven slave?”

“I’m not some… house boy!” Leto let go of his partner, a bit hurt, but unsure why, “I’m a bodyguard. You know that. What use is an educated guard?”

“Much use! Education is always of use!” Aelius insisted, “I didn’t mean to imply your servitude made you anything less than- well, I don’t know. I don’t understand why you’re upset with me.”

Neither did Leto. Perhaps it was the notion that the two of them could have, under different circumstance, had something in common. If Leto had been educated, perhaps they would have learned together. Maybe he was upset because the simplest slip up had shown that Aelius did not see their stations as so different. The emotions were waging conflict inside him. This man thought of them as near equals, which was flattering, but the very fact that this was his belief meant he was the biggest fool Leto had ever known. Whether the feeling rattling around in his chest was irritation, or sadness, he couldn’t know.

“Just… let us return to the task at hand,” Leto mumbled, offering the older man his hand.

“I’m unsure I’m quite in the mood,” Aelius said, “Should we… find our way to the chef to procure ourselves some tea?”

“Tea?” Leto asked.

“It’s very calming. See if it doesn’t… settle your nerves.”

Leto sighed, “Alright. I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

The young elf showed his tutor down the stairwell to the kitchen, finding Erenthal and his staff cooking midday meal.

“Leto! How- Oh. Avannas serah,” Erenthal said, seeing Aelius over Leto’s shoulder.

“Please, good man. Don’t think anything of my presence. My name is Aelius of House Cassian, and my friend and I were in search of tea.”

“Tea, I can do,” Erenthal, “you there, grab these gentlemen two cups. And the finest chai.”

“Thank you,” Leto sat on the rickety table top, “Have you seen Master Danarius yet this morning?”

“No. But I have heard he is in a mood to be feared,” Erenthal said, pouring hot water over the bags of tea, and handing the two of them the mugs, “gotta be honest, lad. They’re blaming it on you. They say only you can put him in such a disposition.”

“Leto has done nothing,” Aelius said, “He’s been with me all this morning.”

“I’m sure,” Erenthal nodded, “do you two need anything for your tea. I have the master’s lunch to prepare.”

“Sugar, please,” Leto asked. Erenthal gave it to him, and turned back to his work.

“You take your tea with sugar?” Aelius smiled at him, “you don’t seem the sort to enjoy sweet things.”

Leto cast him a look, “and just what does that even mean?”

“Do you also like those frilly cakes, with the sugary tops?” Aeius teased.

“Were someone to give me one, I’d hardly refuse,” Leto answered, “I doubt anyone would. Regardless of what “sort” they seem to be.”

“I concede your point. Now. We should finish our tea quickly, before master Danarius find us shirking,” Aelius said. He lifted his cup to his lips and Leto couldn’t pry his eyes away from the way his top lip brushed the rim, and how his eyelashes cast soft shadows onto his cheeks as he closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh. He managed to focus on his own drink, sipping slowly. The desire to touch the man next to him was magnetic, and it wasn’t even intimate in its nature. He wanted to brush the hem of Aelius’ tunic, on place a hand on his knee. Something about him was pulling Leto towards him. He wondered if everyone who saw him felt this way. He imagined so. He looked up and noticed Erenthal giving him knowing sarcastic looks, raising his brow, and jutting his chin subtly at Aelius. Leto returned these glances with a scowl and an obscene gesture.

“Leto? If you don’t mind?” Aelius said, causing the elf to jump and scrabbled to lower his previously gesturing hands, “Could you tell me the truth? Why was your dominus so furious with me this morning? If you are as close as this fine man implies, you must have some idea.”

Leto sighed, rolling his shoulders, “I do.”

“Then tell me,” Aelius urged, finishing his tea, “I’ve nothing to fear from words.”

“The master worried you have grown fond of me,” He answered, avoiding eye contact. It was not exactly a lie. He wasn’t about to admit to Aelius he had taken himself into his hands at the thought of him. Furthermore, he wasn’t about to say that it was nearly the opposite that had his master concerned.

“Fond? Well yes, of course,” The altus agreed, “I consider you a friend. Though that’s hardly of concern. We have known each other only a day. I- oh. Do you believe he’s worried I’ll want to purchase you?”

Leto felt as though he’d been hit in the chest with a boulder, “purchase me…? Purchase… you believe I can be purchased.”

“You are a slave,” Aelius answered.

Once again Leto was filled with a series of inexplicable emotions. The statement was true enough. He was a slave. He was able to be bought and sold at his owner’s whim. But hearing it from someone like Aelius, someone he respected, and had previously- in the last hour- thought of a near equal. Or, something close to it. He shook his head to clear it. Of course Aelius felt this way. He was an altus, raised by a magister. Even if he felt kinship or affection for Leto, he would never unlearn the attitude imbued in him from birth.

“… Yes, I am,” He submitted, setting down his unfinished drink.

“Perhaps I should speak with the Magister. Reassure him there’s no threat,” Aelius said.

“Yes. No threat,” Leto echoed, his voice a bit hollow.

“Oh! Not that I don’t believe you worthy of purchase. You’re… kind. And Funny. And very attractive! And now you are also a spectacular dancer.”

“Would you shut up?” Leto snapped, “You’ve made your point. I’m a slave. I’m uneducated and worst of all, not for sale.”

Aelius had the audacity, then, to look heartbroken, “whatever do you mean? Could we perhaps take this into a private setting? You can argue with me then.”

Leto let himself be lead into a secluded part of the lower level, crossing his arms when they came to a halt. He was seething, and still unsure why.

“I’d like to apologize, serah,” Aelius started, “something I have said deeply offended you.”

Leto bit his bottom lip, “Yes.”

“I do not understand fully, but I believe I hurt you when I implied I could easily purchase you. I am sorry. You are… priceless to me. I think of you as a friend, as I said before.”

Leto let out a frustrated huff, “I suppose I over-reacted. I have been out of sorts since last night.”

“What in the name of the Maker is going on today?” Aelius muttered.

“I apologized,” Leto said defensively.

The Altus sighed, “Yes, I know. Goodness this has quickly gotten away from me. I was planning on asking you about elves after we had our morning lesson, but that’s not happened.”

Leto chuckled, “for normalcy’s sake, ask away, Master Cassian. I won’t yell at you again.”

“Please. I don’t respond well to shouting. I get quite frightened,” Aelius admitted, letting down his hair and running his fingers through it.

And then Leto found his fingers in it as well. Apparently his hands had stopped obeying his conscious mind, and had given in to the steady throb of temptation that had been gnawing at him. It was as soft as it looked, and his stomach twisted in excitement and triumph before it churned with embarrassment and panic. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to remove his hand.

Aelius blinked, “Ser…?”

“I’m sorry… I seem to be, um, touching your hair,” Leto stammered.

“You do,” Aelius agreed, “… Leto? May I say this is simply the most confusing day I’ve lived through, and you’re certainly not helping.”

“… Would you like me to stop touching your hair?” Leto offered.

“No. Do continue. In fact, do you know how to put hair into plates?” Aelius asked, “I can do it myself, but it nearly always ends up crooked.”

Leto nodded, “Yes… please turn around.”

Aelius turned his back, “thank you.”

Leto parted Aelius’ hair into three, marvelling at how thing and silky it felt in his hands. He started braiding slowly, recalling Varania being cross with him for tugging hers too tight. Once he reached the bottom, he secured it with the tie the young scholar had passed him over his shoulder. Leto hesitated, before running his fingers over the nape of Aelius’ neck, earning himself a shiver.

“Am I wrong in assuming that your intentions just shifted toward the intimate?” Aelius asked softly.

“Ah… No! Forgive me, Master Cassian,” Leto blurted out, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. As you’ve said, it’s been an emotionally turbulent day.”

“No… continue. I’ve not been intimate with anyone. I find I am enjoying the contact,” Aelius said.

“I cannot,” Leto said, pulling his hand away, “Master Danarius would not permit it.”

“I understand. Thank you, Leto, for your… welcome intentions,” Aelius said, turning to him, “Let me apologize once again. I feel I am at least half to blame for the… jagged edges of our interactions today.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Leto’s cheek, “Now. As you said, ser, we should return to our studies.”

They spent the rest of the day in the grand ballroom, reviewing the dances and making conversation. The tension had ebbed away, and once again, their exchanges were easy and casual. Leto was content, being close friends with Aelius Cassian, and though there was an irrefutable attraction, comradery was more than acceptable. He had lost track of time, seeing that it was evening, and they had missed the day’s meals.

Danarius came to retrieve Leto around dusk.

“Master Danarius,” Aelius said, obviously still on edge, but outwardly calm nonetheless, “It is good to see you once again.”

There was a steely silence, “Come, Leto.”

“Oh… of course, Master,” Leto walked to his side.

“Say goodbye to Master Cassian, Little wolf,” the Magister said, his voice cold and low.

“Goodbye? What do you mean?”

“One of the scullery boys saw you in the corridor…”

Leto’s blood ran thin, and he felt a cold sweat break out over his forehead and back, “No, Master. Kaffas, I mean, yes. We were. However, it was strictly for a private conversation.”

“I am not interested in excuses. Master Cassian, you know better than to attempt theft of another man’s possessions.”

“Theft?” Aelius asked, indignant, “Serah, I’ve done no such thing, I promise you.”

“You’ve obviously bewitched my darling pup somehow, and I have no further use for you,” Danarius moved in closer, and Aelius took a step back, “a soporati, poaching the slaves of a Magister. How novel.”

  
“I assure you, Master, he’s been a gentleman,” Leto insisted.

Danarius raised his hand, and Aelius seemed to tense, a panicked expression cast over his face. He made a choking sound, before he gagged, a thin trail of crimson falling from his lips. The small stream grew, and soon his chin was caked with blood, and his waistcoat stained ruby red. Danarius released him, and he fell limp onto the tile, coughing and sputtering. Leto ran to him.

“Aelius!” He said, looking him over with shaking hands, “Say something! Anything! Explain! My master will understand!”

Aelius spat up more blood, a good half litre, before his wheezing settled and he opened his mouth to speak. A wet hissing was all he could produce, and the look in his eyes become more and more desperate. He tried again, and the hissing persisted, tears falling down his face, fingers clutching Leto’s tunic.

“Aelius… please speak…” Leto asked softly, “Please. Explain, and I’m sure my Dominus will understand.”

“He won’t speak,” Danarius said sharply, “I have taken his voice. And with his reputation for inane prattling, I doubt any member of House Cassian will object. He is lucky I don’t take more.”

Leto felt tears on his own cheeks, a twist of anger in his chest.

“Come, little wolf. It is time for bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leto's attempt at Orlesian loosely translates as "Only what I've been taught."


	7. Chapter 7

In the following days, Leto’s court tutoring was taken over by Master Denraius’ steward by morning, and his original curriculum resumed by night. He saw and heard nothing about the fate of Aelius Cassian, and he dared not ask after him. In turn, his Master doted on him. He was given a warm blanket for his bed, his meals were larger, and he spent more time unlocked from his shackles. Summer was turning to autumn, and the nights grew crisp, and the palace slaves bundled together as they did their work, often wearing blanket’s over their thinly clothed shoulders. One particularly cold night, his Master had invited him into his bed, keeping him close all night, and stroking his hair until he had fallen asleep. Leto treasured this night above all else. Light suppers turned to warm stews and hearty breads, and Danarius was once again wrapped up in his mysterious studies. Leto had noticed a few of the kitchen staff, Coelis included, were no longer in the palace. He asked where they had been sold to, but Erenthal was as clueless as he himself. 

Leto worked harder, turning his frustrations to the blade, steeling himself. The image of blood stained marble, and soaked silk stained red haunted his dreams. And yet he worked. He let himself be beaten and slashed. His fingers and toes were broken, his back scarred and bruised. He recited poetry in foreign language, barked at him by erudite men, and he learned six different types of spoons and their purposes on the table. 

In the early afternoons, he’d spar with Flavia, with whom he could now easily keep step. Spymaster Hellym had sealed Leto’s lips, not even threat of death could pry them open an inch. A few times the injuries were severe enough to warrant significant attention from the court spirit healers. The hurt- a deep cut between his ribs- had festered slightly, turning interesting shades of purple and green. Leto took the blame for it, as he had overlooked it as a serious ailment, and continued on with his day, concluding the evening with a sleep so sudden and deep he had forgotten to bathe. Leto’s hands, though delicate and clean, were calloused and rough from swinging blades and throwing punches, and regardless, put to use learning to play the tevene lute for his Master. There were times that his head felt crammed and overflowing. While some of the knowledge he found suited him- languages, combat, and decorum. Others felt overwhelming and gave him a headache. Never had he more desperately wished literacy. 

One autumn day, after knocking Flavia soundly on her backside, Leto was approached by his master with a cup of hot tea. 

“Splendid, little pup. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Flavia bested so quickly,” Danarius said, handing his the cup, “You’ve become quite the warrior.”

Leto bowed his head, “You flatter me.” He turned to his trainer and attempted to help her to her feet, only to get his hands slapped away with a cold utterance of ‘knife-ear.’ He scowled, sipping in drink. Fine. She could stay on the frosty dirt as long as she wanted. 

“I came to get you. I have a colleague arriving from Vol Dorma, for midday meal, and I would very much like to show you off.”

Leto brightened, a foolish grin spreading across his face, “Of course, Master! Though, I’m hardly noteworthy at the moment. Should I bathe?”

Danarius smiled at him, moving to stroke his chin, but recoiling slightly when he noticed how sweat-soaked Leto’s face was, “Perhaps that’s best.”

Leto bowed his head once again- something that was a recent habit, from his etiquette tutor- once to Flavia, who had come to a stand and was setting her practice weapons back in their rack, and once more to Danarius, before heading to his Master’s quarters for a fresh set of clothes. His light summer attire had been swapped out for warm layers, and rich colours. His previous owner had never bothered to provide his slaves with winter clothes. He felt blessed. He ran his fingers over a thick green and copper damask doublet, and a deep brown shift, deciding that it was an appropriate outfit in which to meet a Magister. Accessorizing was never something he had been exposed to, and therefore lack an eye for, but members of the Magesterium were always adorned with shining necklaces and gems of all shades. He paused a moment, eyeing Danarius’ jewellery box. Would he mind? He said he wanted to show Leto off, and Leto wanted to look worthy of the pride. He took a long, shaky breath, and a sharp exhale, before gently lifting the lid of the ornate container. He was dazzled by the variety contained within. He selected a simple bronze chain with an equally simple pendant. Green fluorite, cut into a double apex shard. He brought the gem up against the doublet hanging over his forearm, comparing, to be sure the two greens were, in fact, the same. Finding that they were similar enough to pass, he made his way to the slave’s quarters to bathe. 

Bathing had not been something he’d done regularly before coming under the ownership of magister Danarius. He wasn’t fond of the ritual prior to his change in master, but now he enjoyed it. It gave him quiet time alone, and the freedom to relax. He scrubbed at some ground in dirt on his palms, and cursed himself under his breath as he remember he’d forgotten to remove the cotton bandages binding the broken toes on his left foot. He tugged at the soaked material, and tossed it out of the bath with an oddly satisfying wet slap. He raised his foot out of the water and messed with his toes, wincing as he poked at them. At least they weren’t purple anymore, but there was no way that obviously broken toes were fit for the meeting to which his master had invited him. He’d have to wear shoes. His Master had bought him a pair of soft-soled kid-skin slippers, akin to the shoes other slaves wore, but higher quality. He’d wear those.

He drained the tub, and climbed out, realizing he’d forgotten his towel, just as he usually did. He sighed and walked, nude and shameless, into the slave’s personal quarters to fetch one, earning himself a few bashful glances and gossipy titters. 

Leto dressed himself, being careful with the fold of his doublet and shift, and fastening his belt a bit tighter than usual, trying to look trim and sleek. He draped the gemstone around his neck, tucking it under the iron collar, and tied his hair, now reaching between his shoulder blades, into a neat braid. There was no mirror in the kitchen and slave’s quarters, so he hoped he looked decent, and wandered back up to Danarius’ suite, to get his shoes.

His dominus was there, jotting things down in one of his books. It must have been a spur of the moment whim, because the mage had not even bothered to take a seat at the desk. 

“Something pressing, master?” Leto asked, lifting up his cushion, so he could get at the shoes he’d shoved underneath.

“I am consolidating a few of my notes to share with my colleague, Magister Hortensia of House Vergilis.” 

“… What compelled Magister Hortensia to come to Minrathous from Vol Dorma?” Leto asked, carefully sliding his injured foot into its slipper.

“She happens to be an expert on incaensors and their properties. I have questions regarding certain substances, and she was more than happy to meet,” Danarius said, “She’s very eager to meet you as well, little wolf. I wrote her and mention you fondly.”

Leto smiled, “How fondly?”

Danarius looked up at him, “Cheeky.”

“Sorry.”

“Get your other shoe on, pup. I must put you on leash.” 

“Of course, master, forgive me,” Leto nodded, quickly yanking on his second shoe, for all his grace, nearly stumbling in his hurriedness. Once he had regained stability he stood by his Master, waiting.

Danarius gathered a small stack of books and scrolls, then turned his attention to his young charge. He tutted, and straightened Leto’s doublet, and brushed a few stay hairs behind his ears, lingering as he usually did, to run his finger along the shell of it. He pulled a length of iron chain from his desk and secured it to the clasp on Leto’s collar, “Come with me. If you behave well perhaps I’ll treat you to something tonight.” 

“That’s very generous of you,” Leto said, pondering the possible treats he could get. He could only dream it would be sweets again. 

Danarius tugged on the chain link tether, and Leto followed dutifully. He shuffled a bit as he walked, trying to flew his toes in their leather confines. He didn’t like not being able to feel the ground beneath his feet. It made him feel unstable. But he’d have to put up with it until supper time, when he could remove them without getting reprimanded. Besides, removing his shoes would certainly land him with no treat. And he was beginning to have vivid fantasies about caramel. 

Danarius walked them to the solarium, where a striking tower of a woman was waiting. Leto had never seen someone so stoic before. Her features, though ragged with age, appeared to be set in cold marble, unmoving and solid. Her face was sharp, and her hair pulled back into a slick and simple bun. There was a severity about her, and Leto knew better than to test it. He’d play demure. 

“Ah. My dear Hortensia, avanna,” Danarius greeted her, “and welcome home to Minrathous. How is Vol Dorma treating you?”

“Danarius… I find it peaceful. Though I miss the coastal wind off the waves. Please, sit. I sent one of your elves for tea and a light meal. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, please take advantage of my hospitality. My staff are eager to please.” 

Danarius pulled out a seat at the small mosaic table for Hortensia, then took one himself. Leto stood behind his mater, looking down at his feet. This woman was an indomitable presence. 

“I have asked you here to take a look over some of my notes. I believe I gave you a short synapsis of my through our correspondence?”

“You did. Are those your records?” The woman reached out spindly fingers, with dark painted nails, taking hold of one of the tomes Magister Danarius had set on the table. His master nodded, allowing her to peruse them. 

There was a long silence, filled only by the sound of the vellum pages turning under Hortensia’s fingers and the soft metropolitan din outside the wide windows. One of the younger elven lads from the kitchen staff- new last week, Leto reminded himself- brought up a tray of green tea, and biscuits. Both Magisters sat quietly, eating there small meal, Hortensia reading through several notebooks before she sighed, and looked up at them. 

“Is this the elf I heard about?” 

“It is. Leto, come forward,” Daranius tugged the leash once again, bringing Leto in closer. He kept his eyes down, but bowed at the waist in greeting. 

Hortensia stood, seemingly towering over Leto, though she was only an inch or so taller than his own master. She looked down at him over her hatchet like nose, examining him. She ran he hands over him clinically, checking his ears, and then prying his mouth open to see his teeth. He forced himself to stay still and quiet, though he was growing ever more uncomfortable with the line of inspection. Eventually she pulled back to address Danarius.

“He’s small,” she said coolly.

“But quite strong, as you can see,” Danarius added, setting down his tea cup. 

“… Yes. He seems very healthy. Good body mass. No decay of the teeth, strong eyes.”

“He’s a decent candidate, then?” Danarius asked. 

Magister Hortensia didn’t speak for a while, reclaiming her seat and finishing her tea, “yes… I should say so. Though I find him needlessly pretty. You always did favour the petite elven ones.” 

Leto made a face before he could control himself. Needlessly pretty? And a candidate for what exactly? Though there was praise coupled with the discussion, so certainly it couldn’t be anything serious. 

“Tell me, Danarius, how does he heal? I assume you’ve trained him well, so of course he’s been injured,” Hortensia said, looking over Leto once more, “He seems as though he would heal quite well.”

“Very quickly. I've let him grow healthy to promote such things. And he’s been conditioned to endure pain and torture. He’s a veritable stone,” Danarius told her, “Completely steeled, with the scars to prove it.”

“Then I should think he’d be a perfect subject for you,” Hortensia assessed, “You should know that a study of this sort has never been attempted. I’m eager to see if it yields reward.”

“You’ll be the first person I notify,” Danarius smiled. 

Leto wanted to stomp his feet. This circular talk was infuriating, and he had the distinct feeling that it was only going to continue. He maintained composure, but bit his lip. He could also feel a growl from his stomach coming on. Those biscuits looked amazing. He kept in mind his promised treat should he behave. 

Danarius looked at Leto, and rested a hand on the small of his back, “Does the Magister’s praise please you, pup?”

Leto blinked in surprise, “Oh. Of course, Dominus. I am flattered. A-and hardly deserving.” 

“Ah. See? He’s been trained well. I’ve broken him in wonderfully. You know, he was nothing more than an unwashed mongrel when I purchased him.” 

“As they all are. I’m surprised you’ve managed to cull any distasteful habits the knife-ears have retained from their days as savages.” 

Leto just stared at the biscuits. 

Danarius looked up at him, and sighed, “Poor pup, hasn’t had lunch. Here.”

Leto smiled, taking the biscuit and eating it slowly. He didn’t want to seem rude. He’d let the magisters speak poorly of elves, because he knew his Master didn’t think of him that way. He wasn’t like most elves, otherwise he wouldn’t have been selected. 

“Very obedient,” Hortensia noted.

“Very,” Danarius agreed. 

“Is there magic running through his bloodline?” 

“Yes. His sister is an incaesor,” Danarius nodded.

That hurt to hear. Leto hadn’t thought of his sister in weeks, now homesickness washed over him anew. 

“Ah. He’d be excellent for breeding then,” Hortensia observed, “it should be a goal of your once your experiment is complete.”

Now that made Leto visibly shiver. Breeding? He knew such things happened, but he never dreamed it would be done to him.

“Dominus? I… am a body guard- your loyal servant. I would not want to, uh, have my time at your side diminished,” Leto insisted. 

“Very well put, my dear little wolf,” Danarius said, reaching up to scratch under Leto’s chin, “Breeding him would be futile. He’s peerless.”

Leto grinned, leaning into the affectionate touch, “thank you, ser.” 

“Now, if you’d like to see my Arcanum, you’re more than welcome. However, I’d like to send Leto back to his trainers,” Danarius said, standing, and tugging on Leto’s leash.

“Of course. I’ll help you devise a way to perform your ritual. I’d be interested to oversee some preparation,” Hortensia stood as well, “Your pet shows promise. Perhaps he will not be a lethal failure like his predecessors.” 

Danarius nodded, and lead Leto back down to the kitchen, “You were very good.”

“Thank you!” Leto said, shaking all of the strange and unpleasant topics of conversation- especially the word 'lethal'- he had stood through, “Do I deserve that treat?”

“I believe so,” Danarius conceded, “However. I noticed you’ve taken my jewellery. Don’t do it again, or you’ll be locked our room for three days, understand?”

“O-oh… of course. Yes.” 

“Later, I’ve set up yet another new trainer for you. A personal friend. I think you’ll find her very enlightening,” Danarius told him, removing the chain from his collar, “Have you thought about what you’d like for your treat?”

Leto squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath, and bracing himself for the unknown response, “I… want to see my sister!”

His cheek broke out in a cold burn, and his face was flung to the side from the force of the slap he received. He raised his hand to his cheek, standing up straight once more, fortifying his face with a blank expression worthy of a statue. 

“You ungrateful cur,” Danarius hissed, “Have we not gone over this? You are never to see her again! Do you understand? Or perhaps I should speak slower, with shorter words, as your empty skull hasn’t absorbed this is the past.” 

Leto blinked, and endured. He didn’t understand this sudden shift. What had he done wrong?

“Answer me, Leto. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“Yes, Dominus, but may I ask for an explaina-“

“Hold your tongue,” Danarius said, grabbing a harsh hold on Leto’s chin, “I have almost lost you to that simpering soporati whore, and I will not let my prized possession be stolen from me so close to fruition. Now I ask again. Do you understand me, little wolf?”

Leto curled his hands into fists, and relaxed them, “Your will is my command, Master Danarius.” 

“I think you’ll be forgoing that treat. And supper,” Danarius told him, “You’ll be locked into your bed at once.” He grabbed Leto by the ear, digging his nails into it harshly, pulling him to the Magister’s suite. 

“Master, I’m sorry,” Leto said, tripping over his own feet as he was dragged. 

“I know, pup, I can see it. But you must learn that actions have consequences,” Danaruis clamped new shackled onto Leto’s wrists, causing cold panic to crawl up the young elf’s spine. His collar was fixed to the wall, and the wrist-cuffs to the collar itself. He yanked at them, letting out a frustrated grunt.

“Don’t struggle. You’ll injure yourself.”

Leto strained once more, before giving up, staring at the ground under his knees.

Danarius crouched down, and took his head into his hands, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “It is apparent I haven’t quite broken you as far as I’d like to believe. If you wish to serve me to the best of your ability, you will give yourself to me in full.” 

Leto felt rage sitting in his stomach, but he bit his lip. He knew the rage was not directed at his Master, but at himself. Danarius was right. He knew better than to ask. 

Danarius left him, then. Laying, defeated, on his meagre bed, shackled into relative immobility. He let out a long shaking breath, and closed his eyes. He found the silence calming, at least. And being alone, he didn’t need to be on ceremony. However that biscuit had just been enough to whet his appetite. He could tell he’d be hungry soon- as hunger was a friend all too familiar. He groaned in annoyance. Hunger. Again. He had been thoroughly convinced going to bed hungry was a thing of his past. His mother always told him that his smart tongue would earn him nothing but hurt. He chuckled to himself wryly. He wasn’t sure what she’d do if she saw him now. She’d probably coddle him, and soothe his hurts, all the while telling him that he was a cheeky son, and so much like his father. Wry laughter turned to sniffling. He cursed under his breath. He would not cry. He was far stronger than his desire to cry. He wondered what Varania looked like now; had she changed her hair? Had she gotten taller? She’d probably tease him if she heard his thoughts. She’d remind him that he had never noticed when she changed her hair, and when did he start caring? When did he start caring? 

These thoughts swirled like persistent clouds in the back of his mind for hours, before they were cleared by the sharp sound of the door opening. He heard a soft clattering sound in front of him, and his opened his eyes reluctantly. 

“Hey kid,” Erenthal whispered, “I brought you a little something.”

Leto sat up to the best of his shackled ability, “you can’t do that…”

“I can’t? Then how in Andraste’s sweet name did I get this tray up the stairs?” The cook teased, “Tain’t much. Just some broth and a slice of bread and butter. But beats trying to silence a hungry stomach in the early hours.”

Leto looked at Erenthal gratefully, “You didn’t need to do this. If Master Danarius ever found out you brought me food tonight, he’d… I don’t know.”

“Just eat, you stupid twat. Before it gets chilled, or the Master finds you with it,” Erenthal said fondly. 

“Thank you,” Leto struggled a moment, before devising a way to take hold of the bread and dip it into the bowl of broth, “why do this?”

“You and I… and the rest of the slaves… we have to stick together. We’re all we got.” 

Leto leaned forward and rested his head on Erenthal’s shoulder.

The older man patted his back softly, “come on, kid. Eat up before I force feed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erenthal is a gift. Also I've been informed that I am Satan incarnate and shouldn't be allowed to write. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Upon the arrival of morning Leto awoke, sore from his awkward position held overnight, was reminded of his new tutor, much to his chagrin. He was to report to one of the outer courtyards after he was finished with his normally scheduled courses. 

He was walked there behind Danarius as per usual, all the while cursing his luck, and the Maker, for giving him yet one more thing to keep up with. Danarius hadn’t spoken to him much, perhaps two words since Leto had poured him tea that morning. And before then, none. The bitterness held inside that silence did nothing to soothe Leto’s mounting worry. Though Danarius had not spoken much to him, he had strongly implied that this tutoring session, and all the sessions of this kind, would be overseen by him directly. Leto could tell this did not bode well. 

His dread only increased when he saw his tutor to be. A mage, to be certain, and not one with the kindly face of a scholar. This woman was short, and stocky- not the body of circle clerk by any means- and sported light leather armour plating over her simple robes. She regarded Leto with what looked to be unimpressed derision. 

“Pick up your weapon,” The arcane warrior said, jutting her flat chin in the direction of a large claymore. 

Leto hesitantly reached for the blade, “of course. Might I ask why?”

Danarius took a seat on the bench under a large, winding chestnut tree, and sighed, “Do as he says, pup. I’ve grown tired of your backtalk.” 

Leto blinked in surprise, grabbing a firmer grip on his sword. 

“Take your stance, knife-ear,” the mage barked. 

Leto couldn’t help but sigh. He had foolishly hoped, once Flavia had stopped, that his days of being called knife-ear to his face were over. He knew he’d always have it murmured behind his back, but spat straight to him as casually as one passes a cup of sugar? He supposed he’d have to get used to it again. He bent his knees ever so slightly, and raised the oversized blade to a defensive stance. He took a moment to realize that he’d dropped into the stance on instinct; knowing immediately that he’d need to protect himself from this wooden slab of a mage, rather than take the instant offensive. He smirked to himself. He was going to drop this woman on her ass. Watch her throw slurs ever again. 

Heat on his hands, passed through his blade made him jump, nearly letting go of the thin leather wrapped haft. The mage had let loose a long stream of almost molten looking flame, hitting the broad side of the Claymore, sending a ragged heat shooting through the sword and to his unsuspecting fingers.

“Are you alert yet?” The mage asked cooly, “My name is Iva Agrippus. And you’ll learn to fear me.”

And that set Leto over the edge. He scoffed, adjusting his hold on his weapon, which was cooling down slowly, “My master has moulded me into what you see. I fear no mage.” Of course, as he spoke, he regretted each word. He cast a wary glance at Danarius, concerned that this outburst would be his last, but Danarius was smiling, nearly sneering, setting a proud fire in Leto’s heart once again. 

“That brashness will only serve to your downfall, slave,” Agrippus growled, “your master has informed me you’re to be his body guard. Do you know who is most likely to be you master’s enemy?”

Leto shifted, setting his sword to jut into the earth, and standing at his full height, a usually unimpressive feat, but against this short and wide-shouldered altus, it commanded some presence, “Mages, ser. I wasn’t raised a fool.”

“That’s enough, Leto,” Danarius tutted from the side-lines, “you’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“Take up your stance again,” Agrippus said, “I’m going to bring you to your knees. Until you’re not capable of falling down.” 

Leto was hit full on with a blast of fire, and he barely had enough time to raise his arms in defence. The air hissed and crackled with the heat of it, and a cloying, earthy sweetness filled his nose. He realized only once the ferocious stinging set in that the scent was emanating from his own charred arms and shoulders. He cursed, and stumbled back, too shocked to feel the full effect of the pain of his new burns. Leto just let his arms fall to his sides, knowing this was all too familiar; being caught unawares and injured by someone above his station. He groped about for the hilt of his claymore, gripping it tight and yanking it from the ground with a grunt. Though his arms prickled and stung, he had avoided damage to his palms- a fact he relished as he stuck up a defensive pose. 

He retreated back a few paces, and knelt behind his weapon, using its broad surface as a protective barrier. He quickly tore long strips from his tunic, and cinched them around his palms, ensuring the heat built up in the flame bombarded metal wouldn’t burn him and render him useless. 

“Admittedly clever,” Agrippus said, though not to Leto himself. The praise was directed at Danarius, “you’ve done a lot with what precious little you were given.” 

Leto spat. ‘Precious little.’ He felt a familiar irritation rise in his chest, but this was slightly different. His mind was spinning and churning; he had been beaten, and talked at, and mocked all his life, and he bore no ill will. However, since being purchased by Magister Danarius, he had been beaten, mocked, talked at, a shoved full of so many tasks and studies, all with little to no forgiveness for error or exhaustion. Regardless of the fact that he had ample food. Regardless of the fact that he had a bed on which to sleep. And regardless of his Master’s fluctuating, yet fervent affections, he was run into the ground. He was angry. He surged to his feet, letting out an enraged roar, and swung his blade haphazardly over and around his head, building up its momentum, before charging, unbridled, towards the Arcane Warrior across from him. 

The enormous sword struck a wall of shimmering ice, as Agrippus jumped back, and he felt the air in front of him start to vibrate. He cast around rapidly, attempting to locate the next attack. He noticed the subtle glow of cast glyphs below him, and set his jaw. He tugged his weapon from the face of the ice, and quickly vaulted himself over the blockade, and jumped to safety as the space where his feet had been mere moments ago lit up with grounded electricity. 

He allowed himself a moment of victory, grinning like a madman, before spinning the sword over his head again, and ran at the mage again. This time he took into account physical barriers, and shifted rapidly to the side, avoiding another wall of ice. He jumped, raising his claymore and preparing to swing it down at the arcane warrior, only to have a ringing shock shake through his arms. Agrippus’ staff- made of dense metal- had blocked the blow, and it was quickly turned, so the curving blade at its end was sliced at Leto’s woefully open ribs. 

A deep cut was raked through Leto’s side, accompanied by electricity flowing through the staff as it carved through cloth and skin. He crumpled like parchment, and curled in on himself, the sword in his hand dropping to the dust with a metallic thud.   
There was no pain. At least not right away. Leto’s side was full of pins and needles, and his knees were weak and shaking. His arms felt far too light, like they were trying to float away. Then came the pain. Searing and hot, like the burns before, but sharper. He bit his lip, and sat up with considerable effort. He would not falter. 

“A-again,” He spat.

“Your ribs are showing through your skin, knife-ear,” Agrippus sneered, “you would not last another round.”

“Again!” Leto shouted, climbing to his feet, forcing a steady stream of blood from the gaping wound under his arm. He lifted his sword and took up a defensive stance. 

“Danarius, collect your mongrel. He’s going to tear himself apart.”

“I won’t fall! I won’t let a mage defeat me!” Leto snapped, “I won’t let my master down!” 

“Leto. Stand down,” Danarius ordered, “this was only the first of many duels.”

“Dominus-“ Leto argued.

“Now, Leto,” Danarius said, “put down your blade.” 

Leto threw his sword to the ground, and walked back to his master. He felt as though his emotions had reached a peak. He wanted to scream and to cry. He wanted to be touched and held. He reached out his hand to grasp the hem of Danarius’ sleeve with shaking fingers, “I’m sorry, Master. I’ve disappointed you…”

“Only slightly, my little wolf. Come. Let’s get you to a healer.” 

Leto was lead through the palace for the second time that day, this time leading a small trail of blood behind, and dropped off with Danarius’ healer. As magic knitted his flesh together, Leto cursed his failure, and vowed he’d never be defeated again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: coercion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I feel like I should write a note about how terrible Danarius is and that this is not the way relationships should feel... but I like to think that's obvious. idk man. Writing this sort of freaked me out.

Summer slipped further into fall, crisp evenings grew colder. Leto’s body ached daily, awash in new scrapes and burns, wrapped in bandages and sewn full of stitches. 

Agrippus was his nemesis. More so than Helmyn before, and Flavia before that. He wanted this woman to suffer, for no other reason than the fact that she was powerful, and knew it.

His clothing for the gala came in and he was allowed to try it on in front of a large looking glass. Leto needed help getting into it, as the clasps and buckles confused him, but when he saw himself in the mirror, he couldn’t help but run his hands down his thighs and over his chest in appreciation. When he caught Danarius watching him with a small smirk ghosting across his lips, he dropped his hands down to his sides again, and scowled, trying to keep a blush from his cheeks.

“Do you like what you see, little thing?” Danarius teased lightly. 

“Venhedhis, ser… I look like an altus,” Leto muttered, “If only it wasn’t for-“ He tugged at his ears, trying to position them under his hair, so the sharp points would be hidden from view. 

Danarius stood behind him, and untied Leto’s hair, and pinning it back again in such a way to press Leto’s ear against his head, “There.” 

“I look…” Leto struggled with the words, “I look… good.”

“You do. Practically delectable. However, primitive as they are, I like your elven features. They make you seem deceptively delicate.”

“You flatter me,” Leto said, staring at himself a while longer. He leaned in, and fiddled with the intricate pins in his hair, then his waistcoat. 

Danarius placed his hands on Leto’s hips gently, squeezing him, “Don’t stick your behind out in such ways. It’s distracting.”

Leto turned around in surprise. He was just becoming accustomed to the cold treatment from his Master. The sudden warmth was startling, “Wh-what does that mean?”

“It means I’m delighted with my selections,” The Magister untucked the young elf’s ear, and ran his fingers along the edge of them- top to bottom- then under Leto’s chin, in the familiar display. 

Leto was aware of how close his Master was standing, and he arched his back slightly, to put distance between their chests. 

Danarius paced his hand on the small of Leto’s back, “If you’re not careful, you’ll tumble backwards. I won’t have you ripping your stitches and staining the clothing I so graciously purchased for you.” 

“Forgive me, Dominus,” Leto mumbled, unsure how to react. The air in the Magister’s suite was suddenly intimate. 

Danarius slid his hand under Leto’s waistcoat, loosening it, “In fact… remove them. I wouldn’t want you to wrinkle them before the gala.” He pulled away slowly, “Come now. Undress for me. Slowly…” 

Leto blushed, “Undress?”

“Yes.” 

Leto lifted shaking hands to the buckles and clasps across his chest, unlatching them one by one, until the two outer garments fell to the floor. He then started on the cloth wrapped around his shoulder, dropping it to the ground as well, “Master, I… I’m not certain what it is you want from me.” He admitted.

“Continue, little wolf,” Danarius urged. 

Leto nodded, slipping out of the tunic, and undershirt. The complex set of skirts woven around his hips gave him momentary pause, before he managed to unwrap them each in turn. He was left in the simple trousers, and myriad bandages coiled over his waist and torso. 

Danarius stood, then, grabbing Leto’s hands before he could remove the rest of his clothing, “Allow me…” He pushed his charge down on the edge of the bed, his legs hanging over the end. He left Leto in his smallclothes, the cool air chilling his skin. He turned away, biting his lower lip. He wasn’t sure what to do with his arms; raising them over his head, and burying his fingers in the velvet covers. 

“Playing coy, Leto?” Danarius asked, his voiced honeyed and low. 

He turned to face his Master, “Coy, ser?” He had no idea what he meant. He wasn’t being a tease. He was incredibly shy. 

“Do you remember, my pet, the first time I laid my hands on you?” The Magister said. He ran his fingers through Leto’s hair roughly. 

Leto nodded, the memory flooding back to him. It was the first time he’d reached climax under someone else’s hand. The sensation echoed over his body, a shiver starting at the base of his skull and rushing down to his toes. He felt his body betraying him, and blushed deeper, looking away again. 

“Ah ha… look at that,” Danarius crooned softly, “Do you like the idea of me touching you?” 

Leto let out a long, shaky breath, unsure. He felt desire sitting low in his stomach, but fear masked it in waves.

His Master ran his hands over Leto’s chest slowly, then down the inside of his thighs. Leto tensed, and brought his legs closer together, nervous at the contact.

“Not in the mood for that, my little pup? Then might I ask you to help me?” He grabbed Leto’s hand, and led it to rest on the front of his trousers. Leto tried to yank his hand away, frightened, “Oh, no no… don’t worry. I’ll show you what to do. Sit up, Leto.”

Leto did as he was told, as Danarius brought his hand into his own trousers.

“Now, do as you do to yourself, or as I did to you. Slowly,” He said, leaning in to give Leto an easier angle.

Leto brought his hand to rest around his Master’s length with nervous fingers. He didn’t like the way it felt against his palm, and he desperately wanted to retract his hand. Danarius placed his own hands on either side of Leto’s hips on the bed, propping himself up, with his chest against that of his young charge. 

“Come on, you can move. Slowly, as I said,” he whispered into Leto’s ear. 

“I don’t want-“

“Leto,” Danarius insisted, “now.” 

Leto moved his hand slowly back and forth, and Danarius let out a long sigh. 

Though still frightened, the sound of the sigh was a subtle encouragement. He tightened his grip and bit, and made longer, slower strokes. 

“Ohh…there you go, pup… there you go,” The Magister breathed, “What a good boy.”

“I-I’m good…?” Leto echoed softly. He let the praise settle into his skin and warm him from the inside out. He had been terrified that he’d lost the love of his Master.

“Yes… Such a good boy,” Danarius nodded, pressing his lips to Leto’s bare and bruised shoulders. 

“I want to be good,” Leto said simply, craning his neck to the side, opening it for more kisses. He found he enjoyed those more than anything. They never came.

“Faster now, pet,” His Master said, a tremble in his voice. He bit down on Leto’s collar bone, causing him to cry out in pain.

Ignoring the stinging in his shoulder, Leto moved his hand faster, and shut his eyes. He felt a shudder rake through Danarius’ body, and he quickly pulled back his fingers, not wanting to experience the culmination of his work. 

Danarius moved back, and after a moment wandered to where Leto’s discarded clothing lay on the floor, “I’m going to bathe. Clean this up.”

Leto flopped back on the bed, knees shaking and heart pounding. He felt panicked and enraged, like something inside him wanted to rip through his skin. It wasn’t until he gingerly touched his aching shoulder that he realized he was bleeding. He held back a sob. What had just happened? It wasn’t at all like when Danarius had touched him. That left him feeling warm and wanted. As he curled in on himself he felt used and alone. He had looked beautiful, and Danaruis desired him, and yet he felt no pride or happiness. He just wanted to be good. He stood up slowly, and looked at himself, undressed as he was, in the looking glass once more. 

He had changed. He was considerably heavier, having developed strong muscles and toned curves where once there was nothing but jutting bone. His hair, dirty and clumsily cut in his youth, was clean and smooth, tied up in a bun on his head. He looked handsome by all accounts. And yet something ate at him as his met his own gaze. He was all shades of green and purple, and he knew under the bandages it only grew worse. The strength and fire had faded from his eyes. That sharpness he’d recognized in himself was no longer there, and upon realizing this, he was sick to his stomach, losing a lunch he hadn’t even received.


	10. Chapter 10

The season of the Gala arrived, and with it the first few flutters of Tevene winter. The Gala itself, much to Leto’s surprise, was not to take place in Minrathous, but in the city of Vyrantium, to the east, in the cradle of the Nocen Sea river delta. Leto had never travelled out of his home city of Minrathous, and though the notion was more than daunting, he found that his eagerness to see the coastal views of the Imperium cloaked his fears substantially. 

Danarius hired a horse drawn carriage caravan, pulled by four Fereldan coursers he had brought in from the Southern Hinterlands. Leto was dwarfed by these monstrous beasts, and he had never seen such stocky looking steads. He was taught to care for them from Danarius’s quarter master, who would also be joining them on their voyage to the east. Leto was quickly taken with the horses, however, and gave them each names- after the Fereldan cities he could recite off hand. So comfortable, they became with the small elf, that they took to nuzzling and lipping his hair at every possible interval. Something about the animals put Leto at ease, and he was happy to be spending the long trip with such enjoyable company. 

It was a long journey from Minrathous to Vyrantium- planned to take two weeks. His Master packed with his assistance, filling trunks with clothing and a few trinkets from Danarius’s Arcanum he intended to deliver as gifts to his colleagues. Another large leather tooled attaché case held heaps of bound notebooks and scrolls of magic theory. Leto was giddy when he discovered he had his own small trunk with two compartments- one full of clothing, and the other held his armour. Since the trek was lengthy, it would be perfect assassination opportunity for any of Danarius’s rivals, and as such Leto would be performing not only as an assistant quartermaster, but in his first official capacity as body-guard. In addition to his new Gala clothing, which was augmented with light arm plates and scale boot-covers that left the soles of his feet open on the floor, he was given what Danarius described as “interim armour.” It was a bit sparse, consisting of an iron breastplate and simple pouldrons with equally minimal gauntlets with open palms. Iron shin guards fit over his legs. The rest was thick lacquered leather and deep burgundy and green brocade. He felt powerful, and confident for the first time in months. 

They set off the first night winter began in full, the occasional flake of snow falling from the clouds and melting as it hit the ground, the Tevene climate not suited to large sloping hills of white. Leto had never been in a carriage before, and he found himself grinning like a fool at his Master sitting across from him.

“It’s smoother than I thought!” He exclaimed, running his fingers over the soft suede cushions.

“Good horses,” Danarius commented, scratching something down in a small notebook, “do try and stay alert, wolfling. You’re not here for pleasure.”

“Of course, my Dominus, you’re right,” Leto admitted, his face sobering a moment, before he was quickly distracted by the ever ebbing silhouette of beloved Minrathous, a smile spreading over his lips again, “Look, ser. I can see the Circle Tower from here. Maker! It’s tall.”

Danarius gave him a small smile, “Have you never been outside the city?’'

“Not once, Master,” Leto said. 

“This should be quite an experience for you,” the Magister placed his hand on Leto’s knee, “You’ll be seeing the Imperium. Nothing is more astounding than to see the place my ilk and I rule. It awakens the timeworn thirst for conquest. The Tevinter of old. It would be something to see.”

“You could touch the golden city yourself, ser,” Leto nodded.

“You cheeky thing,” Danarius said, squeezing Leto’s leg, “hm… your new armour suits you.” 

“You selected it for me with care,” Leto answered. He turned back to the windows, and watched as the coast rolled by. He’d never seen the waves crash in such a way. He’d barely heard them smack across the docks of the city, and now he saw just how expansive the Nocen Sea was. It glittered like jewellery and the setting sun struck shocks of gold and amber over its ashen blue surface. He felt something stir inside him, and he sighed, “I wish I could write, ser… I would pen down the ocean.”

“What a charming thought,” The Magister said noncommittally. 

“What lies over it?” 

“The island nation of Seheron,” Danarius explained, “and across the Boeric lies Par Vollen.” 

“I can’t imagine traveling such a distance. The sea seems endless.” 

“Perhaps one day, I shall bring you along in my travels to Seheron,” Danarius mused, “It is a dangerous place, and I’d do well to have my best guard by my side.”

“You flatter me,” Leto responded. 

“Only being clinical, my dear,” His Master waved him off, “Play me something… I grow bored already.”

“play…? Oh! Forgive me…” Leto found the lute Danarius has ensured was packed in the main carriage, strumming a petty few discordant tones absentmindedly for a moment. He didn’t claim much musical talent, but Danarius had wanted him to learn, and learn he did. He turned back to the window, his eyes soaking in every wave. He plucked out a few class chord structures, a little something common from the streets, something he would have heard back in the slave quarters. He hummed a nervous melody over the top. He wished he had skill with words; if he couldn’t write the ocean into verse, he’d want to sing it. He felt absolutely miserable that he couldn’t communicate what lights the wonders rolling by put in his heart.

After a good while Leto fell to plucking a few little sweet notes every few minutes, in a lazy, nearly drowsy fashion. He tucked his knees up onto the seat, and let his eyes flutter a bit. The soft swaying motion of the carriage was lulling him to sleep.

“Leto,” Danarius reminded him curtly. 

“Mh…? Kaffas… I’m sorry, Dominus,” Leto said, shaking his head to clear it of contented sleepiness. 

“Perhaps you are not the right elf for the position you’ve been given?” He suggested. His tone was tongue-in-cheek, but his eyes, accusatory, “Should I get you a blanket and a mug of warm cider?”

Leto lowered his feet to the floor, and set the lute aside, “No, ser. I’m alert and diligent,” he insisted. 

Danarius turned back to his writing, and they spent hours in relative silence. As the sun dipped closer to the horizon, the magister lit three orbs of soft light, that floated about the cabin, slowly, illuminating the notebook so he could continue his work. Leto managed to stay awake- though the carriage ride made him impossibly drowsy- sitting back, and blowing puffs of air at the shining spheres when they drew too close to his face, sending them dancing away. They stopped for the evening, Leto, the quartermaster, and the small entourage of slaves unpacked the extravagant magisterium tent used by generals on campaigns. It was large enough to house all four of the forgers pulling the carriage, made of deep red leather, tooled with intricate vines and leaves, and sealed with a water-proof lacquer. The inner layer was a red and gold brocade, and a decently sized mattress had been brought along for Danarius to sleep on. Once this temporary monument was in place, Leto helped the other slaves set up their own tents- shabby things in comparison; barely large enough to house the thin bedrolls provided. 

Danarius wove defensive spells around the perimeter of his tent, as to deter any sly attempts on his life. Leto had offered to stand guard during the night, but his Master had selected two of the other slaves as watchmen. 

Leto was permitted to sleep in Danarius’ tent, which suited him fine. The larger tent was quite warm due to the coal-filled braziers, and after countless months sleeping in close quarters to his master, he was unsure he would be able to sleep further apart.

Daranius’s bed was piled high with rich furs and goose-down blankets, and pillows stuffed full enough to feel like clouds. It was like a little slice of home. Leto’s bed, though easily moved, had not been brought along. He was given one of the bedrolls the other servants used, and was grateful enough. The warmth of the fires more than made up for the rigidness of the coastal ground. In fact, the set up reminded him deeply of his first home, under his soporati master. It made him feel like a child again; like he could run about outside, playing on the rocks and dancing hand in hand with the other slaves. It brought him mixed feelings.

Danarius, clad in a simple sleeping robe, was reading in his bed as Leto unfurled his bedroll.

“Don’t bother with that filthy thing,” His master tutted, “It’s quite cold. I’d like you to spend the night in my bed, keeping me warm.”

Leto smiled, “yes, ser.” 

He clamoured into the bed, curling up by his lap, and laying his head in it, where Danarius could pet his hair and scratch his chin and ears as he read, the way he did when at his desk. 

“What a good pet,” Danarius said softly, “how was your first look at the Imperium?”

“Breath-taking, Dominus,” Leto answered, “I was aware our country is large, but I didn’t know it would look as big as it is.” 

Danarius chuckled, “you’ll need to sleep lightly on this journey. This would be a perfect opportunity for my peers to make an attempt on my life. I need you in my bed, not only to keep me comfortable but to be as close by me as possible.”

“I understand,” Leto agreed, “I’m honoured as usual.” 

“Now,” Danarius began, laying back in bed and blowing out the candles by the side, “Come close, little wolf. I will be most cross if I detect a chill.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gore and violence

Leto awoke early as usual, to clear the tents and pack them back on the servant’s carriage. The morning felt damp and chilly, he breath coming in clouds a he packed. The world seemed cloaked in blue and grey, and the company shivered slightly as they went about their tasks. Danarius was still asleep, and would be for a few more hours. Leto itched to take up the bow they had brought along to hunt the deer he’d seen as they travelled. His master had eaten a small but extravagant meal, while he and the other slaves were given weak broth and hard bread. He would not dare complain, though it had annoyed him. Specifically, he himself would need to eat well if he wanted to be able to protect his Master. And if he should get stronger food, the other slaves should as well. He ran his fingers over it, and sighed. He’d never hunted in his life. He’d be better off asking his Master for a stopover in Asarie or Marnus Pell. 

He set this thought aside, and set to warming up the broth, and distributing the bread. This task done, he brought Danarius his own meal on a tray, so he could enjoy it in the warmth of his bed. He slid through the door slowly.

“Dominus? Would you like me to make tea?” He asked.

His Master was sitting up in bed, the candles by the bedside lit, and his robe rumpled and disorganized, “Tea would be wonderful.” 

Leto set the tray down by Danarius’s side, pouring hot water over the bag of tea in his master’s favourite mug, “We’ve packed up the campsite, and we’re ready to go at your leisure.” 

“Excellent,” Danarius nodded, taking a sip of his tea, “Your armour is in the trunk. You should be prepared.”

Leto did as told, lacing up his stiff leather jerkin, and fastening on his breast plate. As his master ate slowly, and finished his tea, his slid his shin guards over his trousers. He buckled on his pouldrons just as Danarius set aside his tray and got out of bed. 

“Leto. Help me dress,” He ordered.

“Yes, ser,” Leto nodded, fishing around in the trunk at the foot of the bed, and drawing out a robe in the deepest red, and darkest blue, with black serpents stitched into the collar and along the hem. He slid the under-gown over his Master’s head, and then clasped the buckled across his chest, accidentally pinching Danarius’ side. He received a sharp tug to his hair in reprimand.

“Watch it, pet,” he hissed. 

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Leto muttered.

The Magister smoothed down his hair, and sighed, “Now I’ve ruined it. Sit down. Let me put it up for you.”

“Thank you, master,” Leto said. 

Danarius braided his hair, and set it in a crown around his head, “You should look your best at all times. Especially now that we’re on our way to an event of this calibre. I won’t permit any slacking.”

“Yes! I’ll be sure to do my hair every morning!” Leto insisted. 

“What a sweet boy. You’ve demurred since I first purchased you,” Danarius pinched his cheek slightly. 

Leto felt a bit crestfallen, sighing softly, “Thank you, dominus.” 

Danarius left his tent, leaving Leto and the other slaves to collapse it, and pack it onto the carriage. After the campsite was taken down, Leto piled into the carriage, sitting across from his Master. The countryside rolled by again, and Leto found himself mesmerized by the trees and crags along the road. 

Leto was just getting comfortable, the sun was high over the caravan, and the tiny flecks of snow stopped falling as it grew warmer. He made soft chat with Danarius, only rarely earning a response. He wanted to know about Tevinter. He wanted to know the names of the cities, and the food from each place, what the weather was like in the south, and even which magisters lived where. Danarius told him that his curiously was unbecoming, and beginning to irritate him, and that kept him quiet for a long while.

As the shadows began to stretch over the landscape, there was a bump to the carriage, followed by the horses coming to a hasty standstill. There was a drawn out silence, and a soft shuffling. 

“Get out of carriage, Leto. Something is wrong. I’ll follow after,” Danarius said, setting aside his notebook. 

Leto nodded, reaching behind his shoulder, assuring his blade was set properly for easy access. He opened the door slowly, and stepped out, finding nothing but silence. He looked up to the coachman, and his heart dropped into his stomach, a cold chill breaking out over his body. The man had an arrow through the heart, and he was slumped forward over his seat and foot-board, dangling bloodied hands nearly brushing the breeching dee. He felt his vision sharpen, as he ducked behind Redcliffe and Den, scanning the area. He heard the door open, and he shuddered.

“Master, No-!” He dove to the side, a sickening, wet thud issuing from his right shoulder as he shielded the Mage from attack. He slid to a halt, casting a quick glance at the offending shoulder, his stomach turning cartwheels. A dull throb was centred around the space just to the far end of his collar-bone. The shaft of an arrow jutted forebodingly from his body. He cursed, and quickly broke the end off, leaving the arrowhead in his shoulder, knowing better than to remove it in the field. 

He heard a clamour of soft panicked cries from the slave carriage, and quickly ran, ripping open the door, and finding three of the eight elven slaves slaughtered, and another four cowering in one of the seats.

“Did you see the attacker?” Leto barked.

He got no answer, just more soft sobs.

“Please. I need to know. Where did they go?”

One of the younger women raised her hand and pointed out the broken window. The assailant must have been the remaining eighth slave, using a bow from atop the carriage.

Leto bolted, quickly catching a glimpse of the older man pulling a dagger, and heading for his Master’s location. He used his panic to carry him as quickly as his feet could stand, grabbing the man’s shoulder, pulling him to the ground on his back, and slamming his sword through the man’s chest. The crunching of ribs rung through the silent air, and a soggy tearing sound followed the path of Leto’s blade as it was drawn down the man’s gut. It was a moment before Leto knew he was screaming. He couldn’t hear the sound coming out of him, but he could feel his mouth hanging open, and hot tears flowing down his cheeks, leaving clean trails in the tracks of dust muddled blood over his cheeks. He yanked the sword free, and thrust it down once more, stabbing it through the other elf’s chest in finality. He sat there, atop this bloodied corpse, shoulder’s heaving, breath ragged, watching blood pool underneath it, and soak into the knees of his trousers and the frosty earth below. 

“Well done, pet,” Danarius said, walking up behind him.

“D-dominus…” Leto muttered, pulling his sword free in a numbed state, “I… stopped the attacker.”

“You’ve done beautifully.”

Leto finally stood, and looked down on the body as if he were leagues away. Nothing felt real. He expected this man to sit up, and dust off, offering apologies and returning to his post as second coachman. No such movements occurred. 

“You’re injured and filthy,” Danarius finally said, “I won’t have you getting into the carriage in such a state. Go remove the bodies from the slave’s cart, and this disgraceful cur, as well, and toss them off the coast. Then wash. And remove that arrowhead. I’m not paying a healer to cure festered wounds.”

Leto bowed, “Of course, ser.” 

Still in a state of mental detachment, he hauled the bodies of his fellow slaves, heavy and growing cold. He slumped them over his good shoulder, and threw them over the edge of the crag. The assailant he had to drag. The man had been large for an elf, nearly six feet tall, and muscular. He was too heavy for Leto to hoist, with his injured arm and shaking knees. He dragged him, instead, by the wrists, slowly and clumsily. Somewhere along the way, the man tilted to the side and lost half his innards- most of the dragging along behind him, dirt and stones sticking to them as they went. Leto toppled him over the cliff, and shivered, watching and listening as the body tumbled and landed on top of those of the others. The sound of flesh hitting flesh reverberated off the rocky shore, and faded into the fog. 

He stood awhile, staring over the horizon, and licked his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his lips, and feeling the grit of sand in his teeth. He spat on the ground, and made his way back to the campsite, gathering a small knife and pot from the trunk fastened to the rear coach. 

Stumbling his way down the coast to the water, his shoulder aching all the way, he approached the ocean, grinding his teeth in the anticipation of salt in his wound. 

He scooped water into the bucket, and sat on an outcrop of stones, while he pressed the knife into his shoulder, his head swimming at the pain. After what felt like hours of agonizing pulling and shimmying, the iron arrowhead clattered to the ground, falling down into the crevice between two rocks and disappearing. Leto let out a long shaky breath and twisted a rag into a coil, setting it between his teeth, and biting down. He shut his eyes and poured the salt water over himself, to clean out his injury. He sobbed, and cursed into the bitter taste of the cloth, and sat, panting until the stinging subsided. 

Once his vision cleared, he cast his eyes up to the sky, where the sun hung high. It was only half past noon.


	12. Chapter 12

Danarius continued his day as though nothing spectacular had occurred, whereas Leto found himself inexplicably changed. His shoulder was a dull thrum of pain, but that was not the only thing that held his mind. His heart felt as though it was flooded with cold lead, and his legs still shook, though to his knowledge, he felt no fear. He fixed his eyes on the coast-line, but he was devoid of the fascination that enthralled him only earlier that day.

The man’s name. He wasn’t even sure he knew it. It was somewhere along the lines of Felis or Felic. He had seen him back home in Minrathous, tending to Danarius’s stables. He had always seemed a quiet, devoted man. He cared for the horses well, and kept them comfortable, which Leto had always found commendable. How could someone who cared so much for animals, care so little for other people? 

Leto found a loose stich in his jerkin, and picked at it relentlessly. It was Felic- he was sure that had been the man’s name. he knew because a Magister and his son had visited the palace several months ago and the young man’s name was Felix, which Leto found amusing; an elven slave and an altus with nearly the same name. He picked at his jerkin again, his nails making a soft clicking sound. Felic was one of the only elven slaves under Danarius’s ownership that had children. When it came to light that he had impregnated another slave, Danarius had permitted the child be born, seeing that Felic was a strong individual with desirous traits. Leto remembered seeing the tiny thing. The only thought he formed about it was that it was squishy looking, and had cute, chubby fingers. He didn’t remember if the child was a boy or a girl. Felic would never see his child grow up. 

“Leto. Do stop fidgeting so. The sound is irksome,” Danarius chided.

“M…” Leto nodded, moving his now bloody finger with its newly broken nail back to his knee. 

Danarius looked him over, “Don’t tell me your heart breaks over the mongrel coachman?”

“No, Dominus. It does not. I am only thinking of his child in Minrathous.”

“Disappointingly scrawny as I remember,” Danarius said, looking down at his fingernails, most likely brought on by the sight of Leto’s. 

“Yes, ser.” Leto agreed emptily. 

“You always were kind under your harsh and angry exterior. Endearing though it may be, I worry it will make you less useful to me.”

“I’m sorry, Master. Forgive my foolishness,” Leto sighed. 

“Tell me, boy. Have you eaten midday meal? You look pale.”

Leto didn’t hear the question. He stared into the far corner of the carriage box, squinting, as if to bring it into some lost form of clarity. 

“Leto!”

“Y-yes, Dominus?”

“Have you taken midday meal?” Danarius asked again, his voice tense.

“No, ser, I have not. I’m not hungry,” Leto muttered. 

Danarius closed the distance between them, and squeezed his shoulders, “take your meal. I won’t have you weakened.”

Leto sighed, giving a relinquished nod, “You are far too kind to me, my lord.” 

“Yes, you’ll find I am,” Danarius said, leaning in further to kiss Leto’s temple, “How about I treat you to something nice for doing such a wonderful job? I have strawberries and candied rose petals. You like sweets, do you not?” 

Leto nodded again, “Yes.” 

Danarius handed him a box of fruit and a tiny bag of the candied flowers alongside his small loaf of tough bread and bowl of broth. He finished his meagre meal, and stared down at his lovely set of sweets. He picked out one of the rose petals and set it on his tongue, the sugar melting over it. He closed his eyes, forgetting his troubles for a moment, and enjoying the floral sweetness. It had been a long while since he was given sweets. He swallowed and popped another one into his mouth. After he’d finished the rose petals, he opened the box of strawberries, picking up the smallest one, intending to save the largest for last. He bit into it and as he looked down the blood red colour shook him. He dropped it to the floor, and nearly retched. The colour and sheen reminding him too much of his ordeal earlier in the day. 

“Do you not like strawberries?” Danarius asked, a mocking tone to his voice.

Leto struggled to swallow, not about to waste food. He picked up another with a shaking hand, “Th-they’re delicious. Thank you…” he finished them slowly, refusing to look at them as he ate. After he finished, and his stomach had settled, he looked over at his master, “Ser?”

“What is it?”

“Wh-why would Felic, a loyal servant, attack you?” 

“I would have thought it obvious he was bought off by one of my rivals. One much too cowardly to attack me directly,” Danarius said offhandedly, as though simply reporting the weather, or what Erenthal was cooking for breakfast. 

“Is this common?” Leto asked. 

“Little wolf, you ask foolish questions. Have you not thought about why you have your current position?” 

Leto considered this, fully realizing for the first time, the effects of his position as body guard. 

“My, my. Don’t worry so. You’ve been shaped to perfection under my guiding hand. You will not fail me. This much I know. And you’ve grown quite lovely as well. Come closer, my dear.”

Leto move to sit at his Master’s feet.

Danarius ran his fingers over Leto’s ears as usual, and Leto let the contact comfort him, laying his head on the mage’s knees, “Have I pleased you..?” He whispered softly, closing his eyes. 

“Of course, my boy.” 

His chest tightened, and he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. Eventually he moved in a bit closer and managed, “I love my Master.”

“I know you, do, pet. I know.” 

He let himself relax a bit, trying to focus on the rhythmic swaying of the coach, and the smell of sea air coming through the windows. There were times when the magister terrified him- haunted his nightmares and made him feel worthless. There were yet other times where he felt venerated and adored. He knew then, that he could no longer live without this man. They were inseparable, and he didn’t know what he would have done had Felic succeeded in his attempt of Danarius’s life. He would have been lost.

“I will always protect you,” Leto mumbled into the soft cloth of Danarius’s robe. 

“What a good boy you are.” He put a gentle hand on Leto’s head.

Leto let out a soft breath, and moved in even closer, letting the movement of the carriage lull him into a soothing numbness. He could feel himself drifting to sleep, preparing for an admonition, but none came. He let himself fall asleep against Danarius’s knees, dozing through fitful afternoon dreams.


	13. Chapter 13

Danarius continued his day as though nothing spectacular had occurred, whereas Leto found himself inexplicably changed. His shoulder was a dull thrum of pain, but that was not the only thing that held his mind. His heart felt as though it was flooded with cold lead, and his legs still shook, though to his knowledge, he felt no fear. He fixed his eyes on the coast-line, but he was devoid of the fascination that enthralled him only earlier that day.

The man’s name. He wasn’t even sure he knew it. It was somewhere along the lines of Felis or Felic. He had seen him back home in Minrathous, tending to Danarius’s stables. He had always seemed a quiet, devoted man. He cared for the horses well, and kept them comfortable, which Leto had always found commendable. How could someone who cared so much for animals, care so little for other people? 

Leto found a loose stich in his jerkin, and picked at it relentlessly. It was Felic- he was sure that had been the man’s name. he knew because a Magister and his son had visited the palace several months ago and the young man’s name was Felix, which Leto found amusing; an elven slave and an altus with nearly the same name. He picked at his jerkin again, his nails making a soft clicking sound. Felic was one of the only elven slaves under Danarius’s ownership that had children. When it came to light that he had impregnated another slave, Danarius had permitted the child be born, seeing that Felic was a strong individual with desirous traits. Leto remembered seeing the tiny thing. The only thought he formed about it was that it was squishy looking, and had cute, chubby fingers. He didn’t remember if the child was a boy or a girl. Felic would never see his child grow up. 

“Leto. Do stop fidgeting so. The sound is irksome,” Danarius chided.

“M…” Leto nodded, moving his now bloody finger with its newly broken nail back to his knee. 

Danarius looked him over, “Don’t tell me your heart breaks over the mongrel coachman?”

“No, Dominus. It does not. I am only thinking of his child in Minrathous.”

“Disappointingly scrawny as I remember,” Danarius said, looking down at his fingernails, most likely brought on by the sight of Leto’s. 

“Yes, ser.” Leto agreed emptily. 

“You always were kind under your harsh and angry exterior. Endearing though it may be, I worry it will make you less useful to me.”

“I’m sorry, Master. Forgive my foolishness,” Leto sighed. 

“Tell me, boy. Have you eaten midday meal? You look pale.”

Leto didn’t hear the question. He stared into the far corner of the carriage box, squinting, as if to bring it into some lost form of clarity. 

“Leto!”

“Y-yes, Dominus?”

“Have you taken midday meal?” Danarius asked again, his voice tense.

“No, ser, I have not. I’m not hungry,” Leto muttered. 

Danarius closed the distance between them, and squeezed his shoulders, “take your meal. I won’t have you weakened.”

Leto sighed, giving a relinquished nod, “You are far too kind to me, my lord.” 

“Yes, you’ll find I am,” Danarius said, leaning in further to kiss Leto’s temple, “How about I treat you to something nice for doing such a wonderful job? I have strawberries and candied rose petals. You like sweets, do you not?” 

Leto nodded again, “Yes.” 

Danarius handed him a box of fruit and a tiny bag of the candied flowers alongside his small loaf of tough bread and bowl of broth. He finished his meagre meal, and stared down at his lovely set of sweets. He picked out one of the rose petals and set it on his tongue, the sugar melting over it. He closed his eyes, forgetting his troubles for a moment, and enjoying the floral sweetness. It had been a long while since he was given sweets. He swallowed and popped another one into his mouth. After he’d finished the rose petals, he opened the box of strawberries, picking up the smallest one, intending to save the largest for last. He bit into it and as he looked down the blood red colour shook him. He dropped it to the floor, and nearly retched. The colour and sheen reminding him too much of his ordeal earlier in the day. 

“Do you not like strawberries?” Danarius asked, a mocking tone to his voice.

Leto struggled to swallow, not about to waste food. He picked up another with a shaking hand, “Th-they’re delicious. Thank you…” he finished them slowly, refusing to look at them as he ate. After he finished, and his stomach had settled, he looked over at his master, “Ser?”

“What is it?”

“Wh-why would Felic, a loyal servant, attack you?” 

“I would have thought it obvious he was bought off by one of my rivals. One much too cowardly to attack me directly,” Danarius said offhandedly, as though simply reporting the weather, or what Erenthal was cooking for breakfast. 

“Is this common?” Leto asked. 

“Little wolf, you ask foolish questions. Have you not thought about why you have your current position?” 

Leto considered this, fully realizing for the first time, the effects of his position as body guard. 

“My, my. Don’t worry so. You’ve been shaped to perfection under my guiding hand. You will not fail me. This much I know. And you’ve grown quite lovely as well. Come closer, my dear.”

Leto move to sit at his Master’s feet.

Danarius ran his fingers over Leto’s ears as usual, and Leto let the contact comfort him, laying his head on the mage’s knees, “Have I pleased you..?” He whispered softly, closing his eyes. 

“Of course, my boy.” 

His chest tightened, and he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. Eventually he moved in a bit closer and managed, “I love my Master.” 

“I know you, do, pet. I know.” 

He let himself relax a bit, trying to focus on the rhythmic swaying of the coach, and the smell of sea air coming through the windows. There were times when the magister terrified him- haunted his nightmares and made him feel worthless. There were yet other times where he felt venerated and adored. He knew then, that he could no longer live without this man. They were inseparable, and he didn’t know what he would have done had Felic succeeded in his attempt of Danarius’s life. He would have been lost.

“I will always protect you,” Leto mumbled into the soft cloth of Danarius’s robe. 

“What a good boy you are.” He put a gentle hand on Leto’s head  
.  
Leto let out a soft breath, and moved in even closer, letting the movement of the carriage lull him into a soothing numbness. He could feel himself drifting to sleep, preparing for an admonition, but none came. He let himself fall asleep against Danarius’s knees, dozing through fitful afternoon dreams. 

Leto woke up as the sun was setting, forgetting momentarily the events of that afternoon. 

“Did you enjoy your nap?” Danarius asked.

Leto sat up, and stretched the kinks from his neck, “Yes. I suppose I was tired. But, Master, why did you let me rest for so long? Something else could have happened.”

“I considered this, and concluded the likelihood was low,” Danarius answered. 

“How long was I…?”

“About four hours. Really, you remind me of a toddler at times, falling dead to sleep in the middle of the day,” Danarius chided.

“Venedhis. Sorry, ser,” Leto scowled at himself, recalling his Master’s statement that he’d need to sleep lightly for the duration of their journey. He had quickly forgotten his orders, and he was infuriated with his own negligence, “I’ve fucked up… I mean… I… disobeyed you.”

Danarius laughed lightly, “Don’t panic, pup. We’re about to stop for the evening, and you can be helpful setting up our campsite.” 

“As if I would shirk my duties further,” Leto jested dryly, straightening his hair, which had become dishevelled during the hours he slept. 

The carriage came to a stop, and once again Leto helped the other slaves unload the tents and supplies for camp. This time Leto and two other slaves- elven women named Jeren and Luza- were permitted to take the bows they had packed and stalk the plains a while for anything to eat. Leto had never hunted a day in his life, but he found that using a bow for sport was not much different than using it as a weapon. He managed to pin a nug and two grouses, which they skinned and feathered respectively back at camp, and roasted over the fire. 

There was a time or two during the gutting process, that the young elf found himself dwelling on Felic. But he shoved that down and ignored it, focusing instead on the promise of a hearty meal. What he really wanted at the moment was a glass of spiced wine. What he wouldn’t have given for a bit of wine. 

His master begrudgingly allowed Leto to dine with the servants. Leto convined him that the other slaves might need consoling after the day they had experienced, as well as potentially knowing details of who asked Felic to do what he did. He sat down by the fire, across from the elves, who were huddled in a tiny group under one large blanket.

“Would you want me to ask Master Danarius for another blanket? Your bed rolls must be cold,” Leto asked softly, picking at his roasted grouse.

“We couldn’t ask that of you,” Jeren said, “We’re just grateful you went hunting with us. Hey. Elgara smuggled something in her petticoats. Here.” She handed him a flask, and Leto drank and coughed.

“Andraste’s flaming nipples!” He wheezed, “What is this?”

“Fire Whiskey,” Elgara said, “I brewed it myself in secret. Got the recipe from an Antivan merchant.”

Leto sipped again, “Mm…. better the second time.” He handed it back., “How are you all holding up?”

The older man sighed, “Felic was my friend. I can hardly believe he would do something like this. Though he was certainly acting strangely. And it’s not the first time this has happened to our Dominus.” 

Leto blinked, “Truly?”

He nodded, and turned back to his food. 

“… do you know what happened?”

The third woman spoke up, “He must have been hired by another magister. I would guess another rival in incaesor studies.”

Leto sighed, “You’ve really seen this happen before?”

“Yes… last year Magister Dracus hired two of his house boys to poison his tea. Danarius slaughtered them… I had to wash the carriage twice.”

Leto shuddered, “I’m sorry.” 

“What’s he like?”

“Pardon?”

“Master Danarius? What’s he like? Really.”

Leto smiled, “He… is a very intelligent man. He gives me warm clothes and good tutors. And he lets me sleep in his bed at times. I believe he’s a good man.”

“… I wonder why other people want him gone,” Elgara muttered, taking a drink herself.

“Because this land is corrupt,” The older man said bitterly, “Our mages tainted the Golden City and fell back to Tevinter. They corrupt everything they touch, just as the Chant says.”

The other slaves hissed at him to be quiet, “He’ll have your head for that!”

“Let him take it. I’ve seen too much death, all for his games. I’ll be retiring, then,” He tossed a rabbit bone into the fire and found his way to his tent. After moments of uncomfortable silence, the others did the same, Elgara leaving Leto the flask of whiskey before she went, insisting he needed it. 

He was grateful for the drink, sitting by the fire as it died down, sipping slowly. He thought a while on what the older woman had asked; what was Danarius like? He remembered answering, but he’d be unable to recount what he said. His master had been close to him for nearly two years now, and he felt they knew each other well, however, when pressed, he doubted he could produce any real information about him. He liked his tea with one sugar, and preferred his servants have long hair. He worked with incaensors and was deeply entrenched in dangerous research. He had many friends in the Magesterium, and as newly evident, enemies as well. But as far as details, Leto found himself in the dark.

The fire died down to embers, and Leto’s toes and fingertips began to ache with the cold. He dumped the bucket of sea water onto the coals, and after another douse with water, the fire was out and Leto wandered back to his Master’s tent. 

“You smell like alcohol,” Danarius said, as Leto undressed and climbed into the bed alongside him.

“I’ve been drinking,” Leto conceded. 

“You were drinking while you were to be protecting me?” Danarius asked, his voice cold.

“I’m sorry.” 

“You’re lucky that I have other guards.”

Leto didn’t say anything else. He just curled up, and closed his eyes, wanting to fall asleep and end the day with the warmth of drink in his chest.


	14. Chapter 14

The journey was uneventful for a stretch. They made brief stop-overs in Marnas Pell and a few smaller villages. Danarius gave Leto a small allowance while they were in town, which he used to buy mulled wine in repayment to Elgara- after taking a few drinks himself, of course- as well as a perfume that smelled of cedar and sage for the night of the gala. Danarius also allowed Leto a bit of freedom during the night they stayed. He was permitted to walk the night-time market and purchase food by lantern light. He settled on Antivan food; a cup of hot spiced squash soup, and fried dough covered in cinnamon and sugar. The vendor called them churros. As he sat on a stoop in the middle of the bazaar, truly alone for the first time in years, he felt positively blissful. He finished the soup quickly, burning his tongue in his haste, so the churro wouldn’t get chilled before he could eat it. That night he went to bed full and happy. 

The night they spent in one of the tiny villages, the weather turned bitter, and Danarius with it, as the small town didn’t have the proper resources with which to greet a member of the Magisterium. The inn leaked, and lacked a bath-house, and Danarius turned his frustrations to Leto, snapping at him often and forgetting to give him time to take his meals. The only thing that brightened Leto’s disposition during the ordeal was the inn’s bartender and chef- a spritely redheaded woman- who shot him flirtatious glances when she served them. Leto pretended not to notice, so Danarius wouldn’t be cross, but when his master looked away, he’d return the glances. He liked the curve of her back that led into her hips and strong looking thighs. He wanted to place his hands on them. Her name was Kate, and he liked that, too. 

When they left to continue their journey, Kate made them meat pies for the trip, and she handed Leto a small bag of cured meats, explaining to Danarius that they would keep him strong in order to protect such a glorious member of the Magesterium. When then returned to the Carriage, and Leto- after days of hunger- began to munch on his well-earned gift. He found a note inside, with a few words and a couple tiny drawings. He couldn’t read the words but one of the pictures was a decent portrait of himself, and the rest were butterflies. He smiled, deciding that their layover in the village was not so tortuous after all. 

The rest of the way was entirely ordinary. The view didn’t change aside from the occasional patch of coastal forest. There were days when the slaves received only the broth and bread Danarius had let them pack, others they were permitted to hunt again, snaring more coastal deer and a few birds. One night when the Magister’s humours were decent, they were given one of the meat pies to share. Leto ate two pieces before remembering he wasn’t eating alone. He felt remorseful, but the warmth in his belly more than eclipsed his guilt. Something about that should have made him feel more guilt-ridden, but he found he was just happy to have a full stomach, which was becoming an increasing rarity. 

Vyrantium was a large city. Nowhere near the sprawling size of Minrathous, but certainly close. The architecture was similar, but the colour blue- a light shade, echoed in the creamy marble of the buildings- dominated. Jutting spires and sharp angles set against the skies, and the circle tower rose to great heights alongside. The gates of the city shone in the sun as they entered, and Leto was amazed. Of course, he assumed it was just like Minrathous, but he hadn’t seemed much of his home city. The streets were busy- full of people buying all sorts of things. He smelled fresh flowers, and cooking food, and even the heavy scent of wood working.

The Magisters gala was to take place at the circle itself; on the top floors. When Leto looked up as they drew closer, he saw the high floors, circled in balconies dripping with foliage- assumably the ingredients for alchemical works. The sun was setting and Mages were lighting lanterns of veil fire, that danced and floated just beyond the balcony ledges. Leto sighed contentedly. He wondered why anyone would want to live anywhere else besides Tevinter. 

They arrived at the front gates of the Circle Tower, and an elven steward took their belongings from the carriages and took them to a holding area. A few slaves were given their luggage and lead them up the stairs to the wing where the guests would be staying. 

“They haven’t yet brought up the bed I requested for you,” Danarius sighed, looking around the extravagant room. 

“I don’t mind,” Leto said, “In all honesty, I’m simply happy to be out of the coach and in a real room.” 

“Even so,” Danarius tutted, “I shall have to talk to one of the slaves. Ask that they bring it up.”

“Thank you, master.” 

“The Gala begins in an hour. Please get ready. And be sure you look perfect,” Danarius smiled, brushing Leto’s hair behind his ears. 

Leto grinned back. He liked seeing his master happy. He hadn’t smiled for most of the trip, “on your order, dominus!” 

He quickly stripped down to his small clothes, and rummaged through his trunk to find his formal attire. Considering himself in the looking glass, he found he was running his hands over his thighs again. He really was fond of the way he looked in the suit he was given. He took out the perfume he’d purchased, and splashed a bit on his wrists and behind his ears, and nodded, satisfied.

Danarius had changed himself, into an opulent robe made of silk and brocade in green and midnight blue. 

As Leto pinned his hair in place, Danarius gestured for him to come closer so he could clip the chain to his collar. That done, they found their way down to the ballroom. 

It was all Leto could do to keep his jaw from dropping. He had never seen such opulence concentrated in one place. Everything glimmered of gold and silver, and the people were the loveliest of all. As once he had felt elegant and poised, he now felt simply dressed. He comforted himself in the fact that his clothing was still of the highest quality and not to be sneezed at. He teased at the hem of his waistcoat nervously, and straightened his posture. It was a few moments before he tore himself away from the smell of delicious food and drink, and remembered every person in the ballroom was a potential enemy.

A familiar man was the first to greet Danarius, “My old friend! Welcome to the Vyrantium Circle!”

Danarius shook his hand, “Ah, hello! Leto, you recall my colleague Gereon Alexius?”

“A pleasure to see you again, Magister Alexius,” Leto bowed, but recalled the advice he had received, keeping his eyes locked onto those of his social superior. 

Alexius looked at him in confusion a moment, obviously put off by Leto’s directness, “… You remember my son, Felix.”

“Of course,” Danarius nodded, “He looks like he’s growing into a fine young man.”

“An honour to meet you as well,” Leto addressed the younger altus by his father’s side. 

“And this must be your young charge. Pavus’ heir?” Danarius asked, looking at the young man on Alexius’ other side.

“Dorian of House Pavus, charmed of course,” The young man extended his hand. 

Leto stared at this group of people as if they were the colourful fish sold at festivals. They were all decked in gold and black, and the one on the left, Dorian, was wearing a thin line of gold paint on his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was standing so close to people of their calibre. Mages, the lot of them. And powerful ones. He stood up a bit straighter. He refused to be intimidated, even passively. 

Felix Alexius spotted his fidgeting and gave him a quick smile, which Leto ignored. What business did he have receiving a smile from an altus? Let alone one so attractive. He had learned his lesson well. He cast another look around, wondering how many Magisters were in attendance. How many of the partygoers were servants and slaves? Everyone was dressed so finely he couldn’t tell. The only spark of a clue was the occasional pointed ear sticking out from under elaborate hair or caps. He shook his mind to clear it, and looked around once more, picking out places that potential enemies could conceal themselves. He frowned. If Magisters weren’t so obsessed with dramatic urns, this wouldn’t have been so difficult. 

“Is your father here, boy?” Danarius asked Dorian, “I’d like to speak with him before the evening is through.”

“I believe he was last seen on the balcony,” Dorian said. His words were simple enough, but Leto could nearly taste the understated venom in his voice, “Though he has the tendency to do as he pleases, and could very well be anywhere.” 

“Dorian,” Alexius nudged him. 

“Ah, let me simmer, Master Alexius, I do make it look good.” 

“Please forgive my cheeky apprentice. He loves to run his tongue, and while I find his attitude endearing not everyone is so tolerant,” Alexius sighed.

“No harm done. My prize slave has a reputation for backtalk as well,” Danarius smiled, tugging Leto’s chain softly, “Isn’t that right, little thing?”

“Only when asked,” Leto was quick to say.

“You’ll have to excuse us, Danarius. We’ll leave you to enjoy the gala. It was a pleasure as always,” Gereon Alexius and his wards left Leto and his Master alone.

“Alexius is too kind for his own good,” Danarius tutted, “Someone is sure to be dead by night’s end, as is tradition. I certainly hope it isn’t him.” 

Leto stayed quiet. He found the idea of a death not at all surprising. If someone was going to die, it was not going to be his Master.

“Canvassing the room, are we? What a bright boy,” Danarius said. 

“As you’d have me be, dominus,” Leto muttered, watching the people ebb and flow with the music. 

“This is a dangerous sort of beauty, Leto,” His Master turned serious, “The most toxic creatures are nearly always the most colourful, and these men and women, all dressed in lofty regalia, are no different than animals.” 

Leto nodded, “You have my sword between you and any beast in finery.” 

They wove their way through the crowds, Danarius making short conversation with other members of the Magesterium as they went. Once Danarius was asked to dance with another Woman of his status, and Leto was forced to dance with her clumsy apprentice- Dahlia, who trod on his toes and pinched his fingers with her rings a few too many times by accident. She did stammer that he was a “fine dancer for a rabbit-eared slave,” before she was dragged off, which was insulting but strangely comforting. His dancing tutor would have been proud, especially because dancing while heavily armed proved challenging. 

After their stint on the dancefloor, Danarius was approached once again. This time by someone with a familiar name.

“Jovius Cassian, how are you?” Danarius asked.

Leto stood up pin straight, and stared up at this man. He had golden eyes and long black hair, accented by a sharp, short-trimmed beard. His facial features were all too recognizable. 

“Well enough. How was your journey here? It must have been tiring. I heard there was a… mishap? One of the rabbits in your party lost his wits?”

“Word travels fast, I suppose.”

Leto finally looked away from his face, and locked onto the quiet form to his side. It took him a moment to process the figure, scribbling furious in a smartly bound leather journal. Aelius of House Cassian. 

Leto’s heart stopped. It couldn’t truly be him. Never in an entire Age would he have assumed to see Aelius again. And yet, there he was, clear as the sunlight he was named for. His chest tightened and he burned as though he had taken a large gulp of fire whiskey. Aelius. He yearned to say something. To speak to him. To say even a single word, or ask him how he fared. 

And he saw him. Aelius glanced up from his hands, and saw him. He beamed and the floor fell out from under Leto’s feet. There was no remorse, nor hollow grief in the young altus’ eyes; just the same light there had been when they met. Leto kept his face as blank as he could, allowing himself only a slight upturn at the corner of his lips. Danarius had not destroyed him. He still shone.

Aelius pulled a small framed writing slate from his belt, and a long ornate pin from his hair, which Leto noticed had a piece of chalk affixed to the end. He took a moment to write something, and turned it for Leto to see, and Leto’s heart fell into his stomach. He couldn’t read. He struggled to keep the rage from his face as he stared at the two words written in delicate hand, scrunching up his nose as if squinting would bring him long awaited and instant literacy. 

Aelius’ smile sank, and he looked abashed, understanding flowing over his features. He slid the writing board back into the belt, and the pin back into his intricately braided hair. He made determined eye contact with Leto, gesturing first to his own eyes, then to Leto’s in turn. Next he tapped his bottom lip. Watch my lips; the message was clear. 

'It's a pleasure to see you,' Aelius mouthed, 'You look well.' 

Leto shrugged. He couldn’t answer with his own words, regardless. His master and Magister Cassian were standing only an arm’s reach away. He gave Aelius a meaningful look, trying to communicate everything at once.

Aelius’ shoulders shook, and he raised his hand to his lips, laughing without sound. 'Don't look so...' He struggled with his choice of word a moment, 'Bemused,' he decided finally. 

Leto glared at him. He’d look any way he wanted. He was about to ask Aelius how he was feeling when his ears perked, tuning into the Magisters’ conversation. 

“So tell me, Lord Cassian, how are you enjoying your new pet?” Danarius asked, casting a smug glance at Aelius. 

Leto could not recall ever seeing Aelius’ graceful face twisted in such a way. There was no masking his ire at being compared to an animal. 

“He’s adjusted quickly. It is much more peaceful at the mansion without his constant chatter. I must admit, Danarius, your stunt surprised me, but I couldn’t be more pleased.”

That chilled Leto to the bone. How could a father possibly feel pleased that his son was maimed? He flexed his hands impatiently, but played dutiful. After all, it wasn’t his place to try and understand. Perhaps it was for the best. Most things his master did were, of course. Why would this be any different? 

“I’m glad you enjoy my craft. Speaking of which I have a very interesting project in the works currently. Would you join me in the alcove? I’d like to get your input.” The two men turned to remove themselves from the public eye, Leto moving to follow, “Oh no, no. This is not a subject you need worry yourself with. Remain here a while. Perhaps find something to eat?” 

Leto bowed, “Of course, dominus. Please call for me at your leisure.” 

And Leto was left with Aelius, who scowled as the two older men left, spitting in their direction, something that made the young elf frightened for his safety. Not even a Magister’s son could do such a thing without repercussion. Luckily, it appeared that nobody saw. His nonverbal cursing finished, Aelius grabbed Leto’s hand and dragged him to a secluded alcove of their own, out of sight, before throwing his arms around him. When he pulled back, his face was the very picture of relief and happiness. Leto was confused. Why was he so overjoyed? It was he who should be in this state. 

“Master Cassian, I’m glad to see you have-“ Aelius cut him off with a finger to his lips.

'I don’t matter. It was you I worried for.'

“What? Why?” 

'I was certain your master would harm you due to my foolishness.'

“Harm me? He made you a mute!” Leto objected. 

'There are worse things to be,' Aelius smiled at him, 'I am privileged.'

“But still!” Leto insisted, “… My master hurt you. I’m sorry. If I hadn’t felt so attached to you, perhaps you could still speak to me.”

'I don’t need to speak,' Aelius leaned forward, like a wave breaking, pressing his lips against Leto’s. His hands cupped his cheeks, and he pulled himself flush against the young elf’s chest. Leto reeled a moment, before returning the kiss in earnest. He made a soft sound of contentment, and pulled away, very nearly breathless. He took a moment, and laughed, absolutely flabbergasted.

“This is absurd… We’ve really only known each other two days,” Leto explained, trying to calm his loudly thumping heart with a hand to his chest. 

'But I’ve been thinking of you,' Aelius looked at him, pupils blown wide, and cheeks flushed, 'I’ve thought of you every day.'

Leto felt as though the air itself was pressing in on him, “I… I’ve thought of you, too.” 

Aelius moved in again, unbuttoning the high collar of Leto’s tunic, and stealing starved kisses in the crook of his neck. 

Leto made an undignified sound, halfway between and whimper and a sigh.

The young altus moved up to bite Leto’s ear, and Leto’s head swam.

“M-maker… Kaffas…” Leto said breathlessly, “D-do that again.”

He heard Aelius smile, and there was warm, sharp, pressure at his ear again.

He gasped, “… Master Cass- Aelius…” 

Aelius pulled back again, but Leto grabbed his lapels, yanking him into a starved, open mouthed kiss. Aelius wedged his thigh between Leto’s, pressing softly, the tactile motion making Leto ferociously hard. He grinded down onto Aelius’ leg, then up sharply into his hips, causing him to gasp. 

Leto’s head swam again, but he regained his senses, and he finally managed to push the older man away, carefully and not without reluctance, “Fuck, what are we doing? I need to get back to my Master… it isn’t safe for him to be here without me by his side.” 

Aelius, winded and panting, and more than a bit thrown, braced himself against the wall. After a long period of deep breaths, he spoke soundlessly again.

'Regardless, I hope that was as… cathartic for you as it was for me.'

Leto laughed again, this time hard enough that he was wheezing and clutching his sides.

'I’m so glad I amuse.' Aelius pouted, but his eyes were a-glimmer, sharing the sentiment. 

“This has been cathartic, yes,” Leto said, wiping tears from his eyes, “Maker, I… must be losing my mind. I’ve not laughed in months. Or been kissed thusly in years.” 

'A shame we couldn’t accomplish more.'

“More? This wasn’t enough for you?”

'Not hardly,' Aelius kissed his cheek, 'come to my quarters tonight and I’ll make it up to you.'

“… I cannot. My Master locks me in at night,” Leto said. 

Aelius’ face turned ashen, noticing anew the iron collar around Leto’s neck. He touched it warily, 'he binds you like a dog,' he mouthed. 

“My master loves me. Everything he does is to protect me,” Leto insisted, though the words tasted hollow in his mouth. He believed them He truly did. But something about them felt meaningless. 

'Then I shall come to you and take you away.'

“No… please. Talking like that only puts you in danger… I do wish I could see you tonight- to… finish what we’d begun,” Leto said, grabbing the young altus’ hands in his own, “I’ve never had…” 

Aelius gazed at him, confused, for a while before understanding filled his eyes. He gestured to himself shaking his head. Neither had he. Leto stared at him, a look of incredulousness over his features. 

Aelius laughed soundlessly once again, 'I haven’t found time to be intimate with anyone. Until you, Leto.'

Leto’s heart fluttered. Aelius felt close enough to him to be intimate. It was certainly an honour. Leto was unsure he deserved such things. 

The older man turned his back, handing Leto back the hair ties he had removed, gesturing for him to braid it anew. 

Leto complied, and once that was complete, he straightened his own braids as well. They gave each other several looks over, ensuring they were both neat and pristine; presentable. They parted ways- Leto finding himself a quick bite to eat, and Aelius situating himself in the corner of the ballroom, writing furiously. As Leto fell to his Master’s side, he pried his eyes away, knowing if he continued to stare, he’d find himself back in the alcove, behaving poorly.


	15. Chapter 15

The Fade greeted him strangely that night, as he lay on the cushion brought up to his master’s guest quarters. He dreamt of soft lips and floral perfumes. His mind traced over the Tevene coastline, only to find the ebb and flow of the horizon mimicked by the soft curve of Aelius’s hips, and the sharp angle of his shoulders. His semi-conscious mind revolted at the obvious temptations. With so many mages about, this spectacle could very well be a demon, attempting to seduce him into being a willing puppet. He wouldn’t have it. He tossed and turned, but couldn’t wake. 

His mind turned to the second night of the gala. Once again he’d see regal, dancing people. What would it be like to dance as one of them? He felt the warmth of Aelius’s hand in his, the other pressed to his waist. Foolishness. He forced himself awake, and sat up, finding himself alone in his alertness. He stood to his full height, thanking the Maker that he was not able to be locked into bed. He took to pacing before the window. He could leave. He wasn’t tied in. He could walk over to the doors, open them, and walk away. 

He could find Aelius’s quarters, and take an impossibly late tea with him. He could kiss him, and laugh with him, and be back before the sun rose in the morning. Foolishness. Leto fought the urge to kick his bed, instead fetching himself a cup of water. He heard something at the window, and the idiot child in him brought him running to the ledge, gazing over the balcony, expecting to see Aelius waiting for him twenty floors below. He cursed, and dragged himself back inside, shutting the bay doors softly. His life in no way lent itself to overly indulgent romantic ideation. 

Leto huffed, and threw himself back onto his bed, and drew a pillow over his face, half hoping the total darkness would lull him back to sleep, half hoping it would smother him of its own free will. No such comforts occurred. He wanted tea. Sitting up again, he groped his hands along the wall to find the bell-pull- a line that connected to a bell in the slave quarters on that floor. Within moments there was a soft knock on the door. Leto jumped, and shut his eyes, knowing instantly he’d made a mistake. 

Danarius stirred, as the second knock came, “What in Maferath’s name is that pounding?”

“Someone at the door, ser,” Leto offered, as if he didn’t know. 

His master shifted into a light robe and lit a soft fire over the palm of his hand, walking to the door. 

“You called, Master Danarius?” Came a soft voice.

“I certainly did not. Not at this hour.”

Leto pattered up behind him, “i-it was me, Dominus. I couldn’t sleep and thought tea might help.”

“Tea, ser? I’ll bring it as quickly as I can. What sort would please y- oh… you’re an elf.”

“He is. And he has no right to be giving orders,” Danarius said, threading his fingers through Leto’s hair and yanking harshly, then grabbing one of his ears and twisting, “find him chai. Two sugars. And a touch of vanilla crème. Be quick about it. I detest being woken at absurd hours such as these.”

The servant turned on his heels, and Leto fumbled a moment with the fingers clasps around his ear. 

“Just who do you think you are?” Danarius hissed, twisting the ear further. 

Leto grimaced, “A slave, My Lord.”

“Correct. What notion has gotten into you, to believe you can toss your weight around like a person?”

“Notion? None, ser. It was a momentary lapse. Nothing more. Thank you, ser, for permitting me my drink,” Leto muttered.

Danarius finally released the appendage, “It wouldn’t do for you to be ragged at tomorrow’s festivities. Today was child’s play… tomorrow, the intrigue begins.” 

Leto rubbed his poor ear a while, pouting slightly, hoping his master would notice and find the display endearing enough to warrant forgiveness. He stared at himself in the dimly lit mirror, fidgeting with his injured ear. Over the past year, he’d accumulated countless bruises, but never on his ear. Could ears bruise? 

The slave returned with a cup of warm tea, and Leto was presented with it by a chilly-eyed Danarius. 

His Master pointed silently to his bed, and Leto went, sipping slowly. As he finished his cup, his eyes finally felt heavy, and as his drifted to sleep, shoving thoughts of Aelius and the ocean from his mind, he curled up on himself, hoping to have a pleasant dance or two, tomorrow.

He woke up with the sun, as per usual, and set to his duties. He dressed himself in his casual linen shirt and leather trousers. He set out his Master’s day clothes, and rang the bell for the servants’ quarters. Learning from his mistake, he opened the door silently, and waited for the other slaves in the corridor. He requested a rich breakfast for his Master, and a simple one for himself. 

Back in the suite, he poured a cool cup of water for Danarius, and opened the curtains.

“Good morning, Dominus.”

Danarius sighed, sitting, “Good morning, is it? Perhaps I’d be more well rested had you not decided to be selfish at dawns first light.” 

“I’m deeply sorry, Master. Really I am.”

“It matters little. Fetch me a glass of wa-“

Leto quickly put the cup into Danarius’s hand, “Already done, ser.” 

Danarius sighed again, taking a long drink, “you think you can soothe me by doing the tasks I already request of you? You’re a foolish child.”

Leto felt his brow twitch, but he took a long, calming breath, “Of course, Master. You’re right as always. “Shall I help you dress for the day?”

Danarius stood, and let Leto dress him, and wandered to the window, looking out over the city, “Beautiful isn’t it? You’ve never before left Minrathous, correct?”

Leto nodded.

“And your first voyage out of the city is to a wonderful gala at the Vyrantium circle. Where you are well dressed, well fed, and admired by jealous eyed Magisters. Just think of it, little pup; you would never have known such splendour had I not purchased you, and freed you from a life of filth and mediocrity. Think on that before you displease me.” 

Leto found himself tongue tied, but his luck spared him as the serving staff brought in their breakfasts. He ate silently, listening to his master describe the events of the day. 

“The gala itself resumes tonight at dusk. And as tradition dictates I’m sure it will be an evening to remember. Someone is sure to be attack, or some corrupt plot is bound to be revealed. Of course, you’ll be by my side to prevent any harm.”

“Yes, ser.” 

“I’m sure you’re little… harlot… will have much to record.”


End file.
